


Gertie - Part One

by TheTetrarch



Series: The Redemption of Eliot Spencer [6]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Eliot Spencer Whump, Eliot Spencer-centric, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-09 15:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 67,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12890427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTetrarch/pseuds/TheTetrarch
Summary: Damien Moreau did not take kindly to Eliot Spencer leaving his employ. It set a precedent ... one which Moreau would not tolerate. Eliot has to pay for his betrayal, and Moreau doesn't let anything get in his way.This part is a prequel, giving the background to part 2, which is present-day. This is an Eliot Spencer stand-alone story, in which Eliot, trying to break free of Moreau, makes a very unlikely friend who helps him get a grasp on what he wants in his life and tries to come to terms with what he has become.





	1. The Sort That Won't Say Die

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements – My two muses;
> 
> Arthur W. Upfield: author, one-time jackaroo, stockman, drover and murder mystery writer. His knowledge of the indigenous people of Australia and his skill in portraying that great continent in all of its wild beauty is the inspiration for this little tale. It is thanks to his unsurpassed stories that Gertie and all of her little foibles came into being.
> 
> Major Les Hiddins AM, ARA (Retired): Vietnam veteran, botanist, author, survival expert and the original Bush Tucker Man. His astonishing expertise, scrupulous honesty and big grin has made him one of my all-time heroes. Thanks to him, Eliot has his bush skills and in Part Two, Hardison has Bernadette and Oggie.
> 
> All chapter headings are from the works of A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson, one of Australia’s greatest poets. He wrote ‘Waltzing Matilda.’ ‘Nuff said.
> 
> I have never been to Australia, so all mistakes are entirely mine.

* * *

 

** Wapanjara Cattle Station, Northern Territory, Australia **

** April 2006 **

The old Ford Courier ute* trundled steadily along the single-track red-dust road on this early evening, the sun setting as it dropped towards the far Tanami Desert, long, dark shadows pierced by fingers of heat and light setting the bush aflame.

The road wound its way through a landscape of grassy savannah dotted with mulga and gumtrees, and the stark, statuesque outlines of termite mounds sprouted from the grasslands enriched by the rainfall of this year’s wet season, now over and done with for several weeks.

Soapy Munro was a happy man.

His first draft of fat bullocks were gone from the homestead yards and had fetched a good price, and Soapy had marched into the bank on his slightly-bowed legs that spoke of a lifetime on horseback, and deposited the cheque into the Wapanjara Station account.

There were more mobs of fat cattle still grazing the grassland in the huge thousand-hectare paddocks, so the station coffers would be in good shape this year if the prices held.

As he drove, he glanced over at his wife.

“How’s life, old girl?” he asked.

Jo Munro smiled back at her husband of over thirty years, taking in as always the contrast between his lugubrious hang-dog face and the mischievous black eyes that had a glint of love in them every time he looked at her.

“Soapy love, I’ve had a super day and you know it.” Jo ran fingers through the riot of auburn-silver curls on her head and laughed out of sheer pleasure, her skin tanned and covered in fine laughter lines that made her face light up with humour. She had spent the day visiting friends at Tennant Creek, and had seen to stocking up on dried goods and ordering non-perishables for the house which lay deep and lonely in the Barkly lands, away from the noise and bustle of the small town which lay on the road between Darwin and Alice Springs. She would be glad to be home, though. A nearly three hundred kilometre round trip was a long day, and she missed the sprawling, single-storey house they called home.

Soapy grinned. He loved making his wife laugh. It was rich and throaty, a testament to the humour and patience of her nearly six decades of life, and Soapy never tired of hearing it.

“OH GOD, Soapy – WATCH OUT!!” Jo let out a shriek as a dark shape, silhouetted against the sun now dipping below the horizon, suddenly appeared from nowhere in front of the ute.

“BLOODY HELL!!” yelled Soapy, and desperately swinging the steering wheel he tried to avoid whatever-it-was by veering sideways onto the stony edge of the dirt road.

He didn’t quite make it.

The shape was hit broadside-on and clipped by the right front wing of the Ford. Then it hit the door as Soapy managed to swing the ute off the road and onto the rough ground beside the dusty road surface. He carefully applied the brakes and finally brought the Ford to a shuddering halt.

He immediately turned to Jo, his black eyes wide with concern.

“Are you okay, love??” he asked urgently, and his hand strayed to Jo’s shoulder, but she looked at him and nodded, and then unfastened her safety belt.

Soapy scowled.

“Bloody ‘roos!” he swore. Red kangaroos were a common hazard here in the Top End, and a big boomer** could make a mess of a vehicle if they were hit.

“Didn’t look like a ‘roo,” Jo said shakily, and she opened the passenger door and stepped out onto the coarse grass and stones of the land of her birth. Closing the door behind her, she turned and squinted at the indeterminate shape now lying unmoving at the side of the road a few yards away in the encroaching gloom.

Her eyes widened.

“Soapy …”

Soapy was unclipping his rifle from the rack behind the seat. He hated seeing animals in pain, so he would mercifully put the kangaroo out of its misery if required.

“Yeah?”

“Put the rifle away, will you, and get me the first aid kit.”

Soapy stopped what he was doing and frowned, puzzled.

“First aid kit?”

“I think it’s a man,” Jo said starkly. “Bring a torch too,” she added before hurrying towards the figure sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

 _Oh God_ , she thought. _What if he’s dead??_

But then she was crouching down beside what she discovered was the body of a young man, sprawled on his side and face hidden by an up-thrown arm. Jo frantically felt for the pulse under his jaw, and nearly went boneless with relief when she felt the throb of life, even though she thought it fast and a little thready.

Her touch brought an immediate response.

“Leave … leave me ‘lone …”

And the man’s whole body flinched away from her, as though her touch was acid. The arm over his face lifted and he swiped shakily at her, fist clenched. Even as weak as he was, if the fist had landed, it would have hurt.

But Jo, after a lifetime of living on a cattle station which had a whole team of work-toughened stockmen to look after it, was a seasoned avoider of cattle, horses and stockmen with hangovers, and she swayed easily to one side and caught hold of the fist, her small hands encasing his wrist and firmly controlling the hand.

“No … no, don’t … let me go, dammit –“ he muttered.

He was an American, and from the south if the soft, lilting twang in his voice had anything to do with it. That surprised her. What on earth was an American doing in the middle of nowhere here in the northern heartland of Australia, miles from civilisation, wandering around on foot?

“Easy, lad … I’m here to help, alright? I know what I’m doing, so let me get a look at you –“

This time the man tried to shift his entire body and failed spectacularly.

“Don’ need help. C’n … c’n take care of m’self … gotta go …” he slurred, and the man shook Jo off and managed to ease himself over onto his back. He let out a yelp of agony and his hand unfurled and clutched at his opposite shoulder.

Even without the aid of a torch, Jo could see that the shoulder was dislocated.

“Here,” Soapy said, worry rife in his voice as he crouched down beside Jo and handed her the big old metal first aid box. “Is he –“

“He’s alive and complaining,” Jo said, slightly amused, although she couldn’t stop the concern from sounding through her words. “Soapy dear, can you give me some light?”

Soapy nodded and switched on the torch in the fast-encroaching night, giving them both a first good look at the young man they had mistaken for a kangaroo.

He was not _that_ young, Soapy thought, maybe around thirty or a little bit less, and hazy, weary blue eyes blinked painfully in the sudden bright light, his face bruised and stained with dried blood from a days-old cut running down his left eyebrow and continuing to his upper lip. His hair was dark and shaggy, as though he was letting an expensive haircut grow out, and the jeans, shirt and jacket he wore were of good quality but much worn, as were the boots of sturdy leather. He looked as though he had been roughing it for a long, _long_ time.

“Let her take care of you, son,” he said gently. “My wife was a midwife for nearly thirty years and patches up our stockmen – and me, once in a while – when we need it, and then we’ll take you into the hospital at Tennant Creek –“

“NO!” The man was vehement, his voice a mixture of fury and distrust, “No hospitals … don’t need … don’t need a hospital … I’ll be fine … jus’ … jus’ leave me alone … _hate_ hospitals …”

And his eyes closed as he battled to keep talking … to keep the words coming and make these people _understand_ and –

Jo, worried even more, let go of his wrist and tried to soothe him as best she could.

“Shhh now … it’s all right … at least let me look at you and sort out that shoulder. _Please_. The longer we leave it the harder it’ll be to put back in, and then you’ll be in real trouble.”

“ _Goddamit_ , I c’n do it myself –“ the man growled weakly, his voice rasping with pain.

“Hold him, Soapy,” Jo said, and as her husband quickly but firmly held the man down Jo grasped the American’s wrist and elbow with strong hands and rotated, feeling the ball joint slide into the socket with a soft _click_.

The man’s body convulsed with the pain, but he didn’t utter a sound, and it was only as the throbbing agony began to recede that he let out a soft groan and he bared his teeth, trying to control his reaction.

“Easy now …” Jo’s voice was soft and understanding, and she eased the damaged arm over the man’s ribs to help support the battered shoulder, “it’s done … Soapy, can you get my jacket from the ute so I can fold it under his head? I want to check him over –“

But as Soapy relaxed his hold the stranger managed to get his good arm under him and tried to struggle upright and away from both of them. Soapy caught a glimpse of the look in the young man’s eyes, and he was shocked to see the feral visage of a wild, dangerous creature trapped, unable to escape.

Jo, startled just for a second or two, hesitated, but she snapped into action and reaching forward, she cupped the stranger’s bloodied face in her hands and looked him square in the eyes.

“ _Stop it_ , boy … hear me? Just _stop_. You’re safe … _no-one is going to hurt you_. We’re just trying to help, alright? You’re hurt, and I need to check you’re not bleeding internally or have any broken bones. If you don’t want to go to the hospital, that’s fine … _for now_ … but in return, you let me look you over.” She smiled. “How does that sound?”

The man’s breathing was rasping in his chest, shallow and painful, but his blue eyes gazed at Jo, and he saw the truth and honesty in her smile.

And then it was as though someone had knocked the breath out of him as he suddenly began to sag bonelessly, and Jo had to let go and catch him as he slumped into her arms. She felt his body tense with pain, and for the first time she felt the raging heat in him.

Looking up at Soapy, her eyes widened.

“Sweetheart, I think this boy’s very sick!” she whispered. “Help me lay him back, will you?”

Soapy frowned at the fear in his wife’s eyes. He didn’t like it when Jo was afraid. She was a determined, tough woman in her own way, common sense written into her very being, but now … he realised she was very concerned for this fiery young man who had suddenly – and violently – dropped into their lives.

He helped Jo ease the man back onto the ground and then he hurried to the ute, retrieved Jo’s jacket and a bottle of water and rushed back to his wife’s side. Easing the folded jacket under the lolling head, Soapy watched Jo check the young man’s arms and legs for damage, and he heard her murmur to herself as she did so.

“Right leg … seems okay … oh, left knee’s swollen … probably sprained … no breaks.” She moved to his torso and gently unbuttoned his shirt and gasped. “Oh my goodness,” she said quietly, as she discovered the filthy bandage wrapped around the American’s ribcage. Old bloodstains soaked the right side.

“What? What is it?” Soapy asked as he held the torch for Jo, letting her examine the bandages.

“I have no idea,” she replied worriedly. “And I can’t check whatever he’s hiding under these bandages here, love. He needs to be back home where we can get a good look at him.” She felt the stranger’s brow and his bare chest. “He’s burning up. He’s running quite a fever, he’s badly dehydrated and bouncing off the ute hasn’t exactly done him any favours either. Apart from the shoulder and the knee, I think the rest of the damage he already had before we hit him,” she added.

Soapy handed her the bottle of water.

“Here. Let’s see if we can get some water in him, that might help a little,” he said.

Jo cracked the lid and Soapy lifted the man’s head, cradling it gently. The blue eyes opened slightly and studied both of them.

“C’mon, son … try and take a few swallows of this, it’ll help.”

Soapy saw the almost imperceptible nod and Jo managed to trickle a mouthful of the cool water into the stranger, and she was pleased to see his throat work, swallowing the fluid. She got nearly half of the contents of the bottle into him before he turned his head away slightly.

“No … no more … had enough …”

Jo smiled, relieved.

“Well done … that’s good. Now then … do you feel able to stick travelling in the back of the ute for another hour or so?”

The man frowned, struggling to think it through.

“Look … I’ll be okay …” he croaked, his eyes closing as he desperately tried to stay awake, “Jus’ … jus’ leave me …”

Soapy sighed, exasperated.

“Son … that’s not going to happen, so live with it. I know, I know …” he added with a smile, noticing the pained frown on the American’s face, “Life’s a bit of a bugger, hey, but you’re going to have bite the bullet and deal with it, mate.”

The stranger’s bone-tired features grimaced.

“Not … not your son …”

That made Soapy laugh, a dry, warm chuckle.

“Well, if you tell us your name, _son_ , then I won’t have to keep using the word like a galah with the needle stuck in a groove, now will I?” Soapy thought he might quite like this stubborn fool of a man, “So stop being arsey and let us help, lad.” His voice softened. “Don’t worry. You’re safe, and Jo will take good care of you.”

“Not … not safe …” The southern accent became hoarse with stress, “ _Never_ safe … he won’t stop an’ … an’ he’ll go right through you to get to me … can’t … can’t keep you safe …” The blue eyes were intense with feeling now, and the man’s good hand clutched Soapy’s sleeve. “Leave me … _please_ …”

Soapy and Jo looked at one another. Was this the raving of a hurt and delirious man, or was there something behind his words? Jo eased the stranger’s hand from Soapy’s arm and held it, and was surprised when the fingers curled around hers and hung on.

She nodded, and Soapy smiled. Trust Jo to do the right thing.

“Listen, boy,” she said softly, and rubbed her thumb over the stranger’s knuckles in an attempt to calm him. “Soapy’s going to back up the ute and we’ll get you comfy in the flat-bed, alright? You’re coming home with us and we’ll get you cleaned up and this fever dealt with. We’ll have you feeling better in no time,” she added, gentleness in every syllable.

The young man’s blue eyes caught Jo’s green gaze. His words, when they came, chilled her to the bone.

“Let me die,” he whispered. “It’s safer that way.”

Soapy rested a hand on the man’s good shoulder. He had no idea what was going on with this young American, but he was damned if he was going to leave anyone out here in the bush to die. And the man hadn’t been afraid for himself. He was afraid for _them_.

“We’re hard to find out here son, and we’re not exactly helpless,” he said. “C’mon, man … you’re bloody crook***, and you need help. It’ll be a cold day in hell before we leave anyone to croak out here.”

The stranger was so quiet for long moments that Soapy thought he had slipped into unconsciousness, so he started when the soft, gruff voice came again.

“Eliot …” the man said, sounding as though the name had not been a part of him for a long time. “My name … it’s Eliot.”

“Hello Eliot,” Soapy replied with gentle humour, “nice to meet you. This is my wife Jo, and I’m Soapy Munro. You’re on Wapanjara Station land, and for your information we’re clicks away from anywhere, so we’re pretty remote. So whoever this fella is that you’re worried about, he’ll find it bloody hard to find you here. I take it …” Soapy took a deep breath, “I take it you’re not in trouble with the police? Sorry, but I have to ask.” For some reason, Soapy knew Eliot would tell him the truth.

Eliot scowled.

“ _No!_ ”

The indignant tone in his voice made Jo smile. _He’s a proud one_ , she thought. _He’s insulted at the idea_.

“Alrighty then,” she said, now happy that Eliot seemed to accept the possibility that he would live through the next day or so. “Home it is, my lad. And then you can rest and heal. How does that sound? Think you can deal with that?”

“Have to,” he huffed, and Jo’s heart lurched when she realised he really meant it when Eliot had told them to let him die. _Hmmm_ … he was going to be quite a challenge.

She looked up at Soapy, who winked at her. He knew her so well after decades together, and she smiled back.

“Soapy love … let’s take Eliot home,” she said.

 

To be continued …

* * *

**Author’s note:**  
  
*Ute – a ‘utility vehicle’, what would now be regarded as a pick-up, but the Ford Courier in Australia has the ‘ute’ chassis built specifically for Australia’s demanding landscape.

**’Boomer’ – a large male kangaroo.

*** 'crook' - sick, ill.

 


	2. We Long With Bitter Pain

The slow drive to the homestead was a hard one for Eliot. The fever had taken hold a day or two previously, and this, combined with a weakened frame brought on by a combination of blood loss from the wound in his side, dehydration and the impact of a truck on his beleaguered body, was making him fade in and out of consciousness. What made it worse were the vague dreams and images that came to haunt him, and a woman’s face swam in and out of his vision.

 _She_ was kind, though, and when the images in his mind became too hard to take … too bloody and vicious and _Moreau_ , and his nemesis smiled and smiled and _smiled_ , all teeth and dark eyes and deadliness, while Eliot did his bidding and evil ruled and he became nothing … _she_ was there.

And the wickedness abated a little and he muttered and snarled and tried to protect this kind lady and her man, the wiry one with the face like a bloodhound. _He would have to save them_. When his arm flailed protectively and he tried to put himself between them and _him_ , she told Eliot she was safe and he was sick, and Eliot sighed brokenly and shivered with a chill that he couldn’t seem to shake off because it was in his bones and in what was left of his rotten heart.

But after what seemed like a lifetime the jolting and steady movement ceased, and Eliot heard voices and the truck door opened and then slammed shut.

“Where … what …” he murmured, his whole body aching and his vision blurred and distant.

“Shhh … we’re home, boy … you’ll be warm and safe very soon …” the woman said softly, her hand on his chest, anchoring him.

And that was when Eliot finally closed his eyes, gave in to his damaged body and passed out.

* * *

“Charlie! CHARLIE!! We need a hand here!” yelled Soapy as he ran around to the tailgate and opened it, dropping it down to look at Jo sitting beside the young American bundled up in a tarp to try and keep him warm.

The lights from the house veranda came on and a slightly-built man emerged from the front door followed by a small, dumpy woman who stood and watched with hands on her hips.

“Hey, Soapy – what’s up?” Charlie Jakkamarra hurried through the veranda screen door and went down the steps two at a time. He came to a halt beside Soapy, who eased up onto the tailgate and waved at the aborigine to help.

“I need a hand, mate. We picked this bloke up on the way home –“

“We hit him with the _ute_ , Soapy!” Jo said testily, even as she gently rested a hand on Eliot’s hot brow.

Charlie’s dark eyes widened.

“Bloody hell! Is he okay?”

“He’s hurt and we have to get him inside, so stop asking daft questions and help me, will ya?” Soapy answered, now a little embarrassed.

Charlie, who was well used to Soapy’s occasional tetchy moments, quirked a grin and then helped the pastoralist gently ease the lax body of this unknown young man out of the ute, Jo fussing all the way as Eliot was lifted in the two men’s arms.

Soapy, slinging Eliot’s good arm around his shoulder, glanced up at the woman on the veranda.

“Effie?? Get the spare room ready, please!!” he bawled. “And we’ll need hot water and the first aid kit!”

The dumpy old woman scowled.

“You bringing home waifs and strays now?? Bugger it … ” she growled, but then she sighed and turned back into the house, muttering to herself. The light went on in the room beside the front door.

“Easy with him, Charlie … he’s a bit knocked about and he’s pretty sick,” Jo cautioned, hovering and fussing, and Charlie helped Soapy support Eliot, being as careful as he could as they gently carried Eliot up the veranda steps and through the screen door.

And then they were inside the low-slung house, lights burning in the darkness of a star-ridden sky and with the scent of jasmine redolent in the soft night air, and Eliot was consumed by the warmth and care of the Munro home.

* * *

“He’s a ruddy mess,” Jo muttered as she began to ease Eliot out of his shirt as he lay supine on the comfortable bed in this spartan but homely room. “Oh, dear me …”

She was shocked at Eliot’s condition, and she sucked in a breath as she studied the dappling of heavy bruising on his chest and side. She suspected these were a few days old, unlike the bruises on his shoulder and back, caused by the glancing impact of the ute.

Once the shirt was off, she looked up at Charlie, who laid the big household medical kit on the bedside table. The young man ran his fingers through a mop of curly hair as black as a raven’s wing and he frowned.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Skinny as a rake,” Jo answered, worried. Slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves, she dug out the scissors from the kit and snipped through the dirty, heavy bandaging around Eliot’s ribcage. She gasped as she carefully pulled it to one side. “ … and now we know why you’re so sick, my lad,” she added, studying the long, badly-infected gash along his ribs. Eliot moaned and stirred.

“Crikey!” Charlie said, wincing. “Where the hell did he get that?”

“Looks like a knife to me,” Effie grumbled as she stumped into the room with a bowl of hot water. She was about five feet tall and four feet wide, and wore a grey dress covered by an incongruous flowery apron. Her eyes were small, annoyed and the colour of dirty water, and her grey hair was tied back in a bun. “He’s bloody lucky he’s not carked1 it,” she added with a hint of morbid relish.

“Yes, well, he’s still breathing Effie, so if you don’t mind, a cuppa and some cake would be nice once we’ve got Eliot cleaned up.” Jo said as she took the bowl from Effie and pulled out gauze and dressings from the kit. “Could you tell Soapy I’ll need a hand when he’s finished bringing everything in from the ute?”

“Mister M sez he’s a Yank,” Effie continued, ignoring the request. “What’s a Yank doing out here? Going walkabout?? I don’t think so,” she muttered darkly.

“Ain’t … ain’t a Yank …” a voice came from the bed. “ … m’from Oklahoma …” Eliot groused, now semi-conscious, hurting and with the fever rippling through him and making every nerve in his body throb with pain. He had no idea where he was, but he was freezing, and his chest and sides were bare and the bandage he had wrapped around his wounded side three days ago was gone.

Effie snorted.

“Still a bloody Yank,” she reiterated testily. “And you, Mister Yank, shut your gob and let the Missus patch you up, hear?”

“You … you’re just friggin’ _rude_ …” Eliot mumbled, trying to sit up and being pushed back onto the bed by an annoyed Jo. “M’ cold … _so cold_ …” He shivered.

“Lie still, young man,” she scolded softly. “You’ll be warm soon, I promise. But I have to clean this cut, sweetie. It’s not going to be nice, I’m afraid. I can’t stitch it … it’s too late for that … but I have to clean up the infection.” Jo thought for a moment. “Eliot … are you allergic to penicillin or streptomycin?”

Eliot, trying to remember who this woman was who insisted on trying to keep him alive, shook his head.

“No … m’okay with ‘em …” he gasped as Jo very carefully began to wipe away pus and blood from the crusted, swollen gash that ran for a good nine inches or so along his ribs. It was deep and it was dirty and it was a mass of infection, and Eliot knew it.

Effie studied the injured man and nodded.

“He looks a tough bastard, at least. He’ll do alright,” she said to herself.

And then she shuffled out of the room, presumably to make tea.

Charlie pulled up a chair and sat beside Eliot, laying a cool hand on the man’s bare shoulder.

“Let me know if you need me to … y’know … hold him down,” he said quietly to Jo. Then he noticed the gleam of blue as Eliot’s eyes shuttered open, hazy and glazed with pain and fever. Charlie smiled, and Eliot blinked, confused, as Charlie introduced himself. “Hello there … Charlie Jakkamarra … station manager and the only one around here who does any bloody work.”

“El … Eliot Spencer … from Oklahoma …” And Eliot flinched as Jo began to increase the pressure on his side, cleaning out foul matter clinically and efficiently.

“Rough day, mate?” Charlie asked good-humouredly.

“Y … yeah …” Eliot hissed, clenching his teeth. “Feel like shit …”

Charlie had to agree that Eliot had every right to feel shitty.

“Keep talking, Charlie … I’m getting to the worst of it and he could do with the distraction …” Jo muttered, soaking gauze in antiseptic-laced hot water and doggedly cleaning up the now-bloody gash.

Charlie nodded, concerned at the amount of blood Jo was now mopping up from Eliot’s side and which trickled down to the towelling she had placed underneath him.

“Um … I take it you Yanks have horses in Oklahoma?”

Eliot let out a grunt of agony as Jo worked, and coughed, the shivering increasing even as his fever heightened.

“Not a –“

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie sighed theatrically, “you’re not a Yank. Got it. Anyway … Oklahoma. Cow country, right? So … horses. Know anything about horses?”

Eliot nodded feebly.

“A bit. You … you still use ‘em here?”

“Too right!” Charlie said, almost insulted. “They go places in the bush ATVs and helicopters can’t go. You ride?”

Eliot had to close his eyes and hold his breath for a bit as Jo moved to the worst part of the gash, but then he opened them again and set his gaze on Charlie as though the young man and his chatty conversation would keep him sane and steady.

“Yeah … I ride.”

Charlie was delighted.

“Good-oh! I’ve got an old brown mare that’s pretty dopey and easy to handle. I know you’re a bit stuffed2 right now, but when you’re up and about, how about tryin’ her out?”

Eliot sucked in a deep breath and grunted against the pain, but he fought against the all-consuming confusion of the fever and sickness clouding his mind and nodded.

“Deal …” he ground out, and thought how long it had been since he had ridden a horse. _Almost a lifetime ago_.

Jo was nearly done, and she pressed a dressing against the now-cleaned wound to stop the bleeding, which made Eliot shudder with the rawness of it, but he stood it anyway and swore under his breath.

“Just about over,” Charlie murmured sympathetically, “I know, mate … it’s a bit of a bugger, but it’ll stop the fever getting any worse.” _He hoped_.

Jo eased off and swathed the gash with antiseptic ointment before taping a thick dressing over the injury.

“There. All done,” she said. “Now … let’s get those cuts on your face seen to and then I’ll strap up your arm to keep your shoulder from moving too much.” She paused and thought about something. “I don’t think I can do much for your knee other than try and take the swelling down, but you’ll be in this bed for a day or two anyway, so no worries.”

Eliot blinked wearily, and tried to control his shivering but failed. He felt as though he was in an ice-box.

“Charlie … would you mind asking Soapy to fetch me the pen-and-strep bottle from the vet cupboard, please?” Jo asked, and when Charlie headed off to find Soapy, Jo began to clean the cuts on Eliot’s brow and lip. “I’ll try to stop these scarring, my lad, so your good looks aren’t ruined.”

Eliot could hear the smile in the woman’s voice, and _dammit_ if he could remember who she was … but he did know she was kind. He hadn’t had anybody be kind to him in what seemed like a lifetime. So he just lay there, freezing to death, and put up with Jo placing a thermometer in his mouth while she worked on the cuts.

Soapy arrived ten minutes later with a small clear glass bottle of an off-white liquid suspension and a syringe.

“Here you are, old girl,” he said. “Charlie’s putting the ute away, so I thought I’d take my turn with helping out. I brought some orange juice as well … Eliot should try and drink some of it, maybe?”

“Good thinking,” Jo said as she finished cleaning the cuts on Eliot’s face and pulled a light blanket over him, just to warm him up until he could be settled properly into the bed. “He has a temperature of 103.4 … we need to bring that down as soon as we can, Soapy. He’s in for a hard couple of days, poor love, and the more fluid we can get in him the better.” Jo sighed. “Well,” she continued, “I suppose we should get these antibiotics into him.“

She leaned over Eliot and tapped his cheek, rousing him from his feverish doze. His face was white, with only a flush of colour at his cheekbones, and his eyes were unfocused.

“Eliot, I’m going to give you some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Alright? This should knock the infection on the head over the next three days or so, but you’ll not feel very great until your temperature goes down. Sorry, son, but that’s the way it is. You’re going to have a tough few days, but I’ll do all I can to make you as comfortable as possible. Do you understand?”

Eliot nodded vaguely, hurt and ill and not too sure how he had deserved to be helped like this.

Jo showed him the syringe filled with the antibiotic.

“This stuff is the one we use for the cattle and horses, but it’s just as good for humans, so it should help no end. The only problem is that I’m going to have to stick a needle in your backside once a day for three days, maybe a couple more if your fever doesn’t respond as quickly as I’d like. You’ll live with it though, won’t you?”

Shivering under the blanket, Eliot really didn’t care what this woman did because he was too friggin’ cold to worry about it, and all he wanted to do was sink into oblivion, and he didn’t give a damn if he lived through it or not.

“’Kay,” he stammered, his teeth beginning to chatter.

So Jo took a deep breath, ran her fingers through Eliot’s sweat-damp hair to calm him, and with Soapy’s help got her charge settled for a long and difficult night.

* * *

Eliot dreamt.

He dreamt that he couldn’t breath and the water being poured over his face was choking … choking … and the scream of questions and the beatings and the electrodes and the shaking horror of it had him yelling in the night, hoarse and hurting and numbing, until the touch of a hand on his brow or the swallow of sweet orange juice calmed him, and a voice would tell him he was safe and it wasn’t real.

And as Jo sat with him in the deep of the night, she listened to Eliot Spencer suffer and rant and yell, and all she could do was talk to him and try and get fluids into his ravaged body.

Soapy tried to tell her to go to bed and rest and he would tend to the young man, but Jo wouldn’t have it. Eliot was her responsibility, she said, and she would make sure he knew he wasn’t alone.

But in the morning dawn his fever didn’t subside, and the nightmares became more difficult to dispel. Eliot’s temperature soared to over 104 degrees, and his fever took him apart at the seams. He roared abuse at Jo, telling her he was a nasty sonofabitch and she shouldn’t waste her time on him, and that he could cut her throat in the night and she would never know about it until the blood spilled from her veins. And he would do it without a thought.

Jo soothed him and spoke soft words of such kindness that Eliot, even in his delirium, shook with the shame of it, and as Jo helped him drink the cool, sweet juice from the orange trees in their little orchard, she wept silently at the horror this man still endured.

As the second night began with more horrors and even worse nightmares, Jo knew Eliot needed to be able to breathe and feel the world around him, and she summoned Soapy and Charlie. _Eliot had to be outside_ , she said. _Take him out onto the veranda_ , she ordered, where the night air would help him settle and he wouldn’t feel so trapped. So Soapy and Charlie, worried about Jo being so exhausted, lifted Eliot from his bed and laid him gently on a fold-down bed on the veranda, where the cool, scented night air helped him breathe more freely and the warm blankets cradled him and kept him safe.

Jo sat beside him, looking through the fly screens at the moonless starlit night, and lifting her cup of tea she settled down to wait and see if Eliot Spencer would decide to live.

 

To be continued …

* * *

**Author’s notes** :

  1. ‘Carked it’ – dead as a doornail.
  2. ‘stuffed’ – wrecked.




	3. Grey Dawn on the Sand-Hills

It was the fluting, melodic calls of the magpies that finally brought Eliot from the land of his nightmares.

He surfaced slowly. For the longest while he slept fitfully, unsure of where he was or what had happened, and he was alone and ill and his family were long gone … away from _him_ , the man who could get them killed simply by being who he was and by what he did.

But when the magpies called, lilting and argumentative and melodious, he listened because he didn’t think he had heard anything quite so beautiful in his life.

“Um …” he said, his voice dry and raw, and then he decided to try and open his eyes.

“Easy, son …” the woman’s voice said, and he felt the cool palm on his forehead. “You’ve had a rotten time of it, and you’re still sick, so take your time, alright?”

Eliot cracked open his eyelids, and found himself looking at kindly green eyes framed by silvered auburn curls.

The woman … the voice that had held him to life even as he wanted nothing more than to let go and fade from this earth.

“Ma’am …” he croaked, “ … where …“

“You don’t remember, then. I’m Jo Munro and you’re here at Wapanjara Station.” Jo grinned. “My husband hit you with our ute. That was three days ago. But you were already hurt and sick, so we brought you home.”

Eliot digested the information. He remembered fragments of it all … but right now he felt like a wrung-out dish rag and he lay, warm for the first time in a lifetime, or so it seemed, and he couldn’t move much even if he had wanted to.

He turned his eyes to look at the world around him.

He was lying outside, he realised, but safe and enclosed on a wide, roomy veranda, protected from insects and snakes by a fine net over the frame. Beyond the veranda was _serenity_.

A small garden surrounded by rabbit-proof fencing lay beyond the yard, and a stand of almond trees grew beyond the garden and Eliot could smell fresh water mixed with the scents of flowers, of roses and jasmine, and the hint of eucalyptus and oranges. The magpies wittered and sang in the almond trees, and then Eliot heard the soft nicker of horses in the distance.

It felt like _home_.

It was sunset. The heat was going out of the day, and a flock of galahs flew, yammering and chattering, towards the water Eliot could smell but couldn’t see. He tried to shift a little to see more, but his side protested and Jo touched his shoulder, concerned.

“Try not to ruin all of the good work I put into trying to clean up that mess you made of your side, young man,” she scolded, smiling.

Eliot turned his gaze back to Jo, and careful of his side and his bruised shoulder, eased a hand from his swathe of blankets, feeling the breeze soft on his skin. Holding it up, he let the setting sun’s rays touch his fingers and he felt the air sigh over the battered knuckles.

“Yes …” Jo said softly. “You’re still alive. Despite your determination to be otherwise,” she added.

Eliot considered her words, frowning. He winced at the pull on the cuts in his brow and lip, but they felt better.

“Why?” he said finally as his blue eyes, clearer than they had been in days, studied Jo with genuine puzzlement.

Jo quirked a curious smile.

“Why what?” she said. “Save you? You want to know why we took you in?”

Eliot nodded.

“Yes’m,” he replied soberly.

Jo had to broaden her smile into a grin at that one.

 _This boy’s been brought up with manners_ , she thought, amused and a little touched. She answered his question easily.

“Now why would I let _anyone_ die?” she said dryly. “Even the idiot ones that ask me to do just that? Because as far as I was concerned, that was just the fever talking. But whatever your motives, Eliot, they weren’t good enough. So …” she said, changing the subject before the young American could sink into a mood, “do you think you could eat something? You’re thin, son. You need some nourishment in you. I have some beef broth on the go, or perhaps some scrambled eggs if you’re up to it?”

Eliot, a little nonplussed but too tired to worry about it right now, thought about food. He couldn’t remember the last decent meal he had had. The broth sounded easy to digest and tasty.

“Broth,” he said. “Just a little bit. Thanks,” he added, his voice gaining a little strength.

Jo nodded approvingly.

“Good! Would you like a little tea to go with it?”

Tea sounded just about right, Eliot decided.

“Milky?” he asked tentatively.

“No worries,” Jo said. “And if you behave yourself this evening and be quiet and still, and rest without worrying the wits out of all of us, I’ll put by one of Effie’s lamingtons for you.” She smiled at Eliot’s confusion. “It’s a cake. Effie likes to put cream and strawberry jam in the middle. How does that sound?”

Eliot thought about it and nodded.

“Sounds great,” he said, although his appetite wasn’t at its best. A bit of sweetness would be nice.

“Good-oh,” Jo said, satisfied that Eliot might just be on the mend. “So … I’ll go get that broth and a cuppa for you.” She stood up and turned to go, but hesitated. “Eliot …”

“Yeah, ma’am?”

 _Oh, for goodness sake_ … this politeness was a _killer_ …

“Son … it’s Jo. Call me Jo. I’ve been looking after your skinny backside for the past three days, and I think we’re a bit beyond ‘ma’am’, don’t you think?”

Eliot could deal with that. But Jo wasn’t finished.

“You really _are_ concerned that this man … this Moreau … will send his men here, aren’t you?”

Eliot’s eyes widened. _She knew_. What the hell had he said while he was out of it? He’d been raving, he knew, and he could remember Jo’s voice and her kindness even as he ranted at her. But had he really mentioned Moreau? Obviously he had. _Jeez_.

“Yeah … an’ if his men come they will kill you to get to me,” he said bluntly.

Jo pondered his words, and Eliot was surprised to see that she was unafraid.

“We’ll talk about it later, when you’re stronger.” Jo’s face suddenly broke into a smile. “Do you want to go back to your bed, or –“

“I’d like to stay here,” Eliot said quickly. “If … if that’s okay. It’s …” He didn’t quite know how to express himself. He searched for a word and found it. “It’s … restful.”

Jo nodded, understanding. “That’s the magic of Wapanjara. Why do you think Soapy and I never go anywhere else these days? This is our home, and it makes us who we are. And, I think, it’s what _you_ need, Eliot Spencer.” Her eyes crinkled in unspoken warmth. “A place to _rest_.”

And heading off to the kitchen to get Eliot something to fill his stomach, she left him to his thoughts.

* * *

The broth was good. _Very_ good, and Eliot managed the mugful, relishing the rich and fulsome flavour. Then he drank most of a mug of hot, milky tea, relaxing back onto the pillows propping him up.

As he sipped, he soaked in the sunset, listening to the call of the galahs and the magpies, and every now and again he heard the distinctive laughter of a kookaburra, cackling cheerfully in the red gum trees dotted beside the unseen water source. Beyond the trees he heard the lowing of cattle. He wondered if they were coming in to drink at a waterhole somewhere nearby, and then the thought of getting on a horse again made his damaged soul sing a little.

“Oi, Yank!”

Effie’s coarse voice disturbed his peaceful reverie, and he scowled.

“Not a Yank,” he muttered.

Effie rolled up beside him holding a plate.

“The Missus said to give you this.” Effie proffered the plate and Eliot gingerly put down his tea and reached out for it, wincing as his side burned with the unaccustomed movement.

Eliot discovered a square, chocolate-coconut confection split in half and filled with thick, rich yellow cream and ruby-red jam. This, apparently, was the mysterious lamington.

He really didn’t think he could manage all of it, but the eager look of expectancy tinged with more than a modicum of distrust on Effie’s round, pudgy features made him hesitate.

“Made it myself,” she growled. She waited for Eliot’s reply, but his silence made her eyes narrow. “My lamingtons’ve won _awards_ ,” she added testily.

Eliot, sore and weary and thinking about taking a long, long nap, knew he would have to eat this thing.

He lifted it off the plate and took a bite.

The lamington was a sudden explosion of sensations, chocolatey and sweet and _oh_ , the fruitiness of the strawberries and the combination of cream and coconut and … oh _god_ this thing was _heavenly_ , and Eliot’s eyes closed with the pleasure of it. This kind of pleasure was a rarity for him, considering how sensation-starved he had been for so many years. Swallowing, he took another bite and repeated the action until before he knew it, the square of loveliness was gone.

Effie let out a bark of satisfied delight.

“See? Bloody good, hey! Bet you Yanks don’t have nothing like _that!!_ ” She exclaimed with relish.

Eliot, sucking the last of the goodness off his fingers, handed the plate back to a smug Effie and nodded his thanks.

“That’ll fatten you up,” Effie smirked. “Fill out that skinny Yank hide and put some meat on your bones. Abso-bloody-lutely!” She turned and was on the point of heading off to her kitchen when Eliot’s quiet voice stopped her in her tracks.

“My Momma’s southern pecan pie,” he said. “Best pie in the world.”

Effie’s eyes became little pin-points of annoyance.

“Well, we’ll never know how good it is, will we? Not unless you can cook!” she added with derision.

Eliot shrugged.

“I can cook,” he said.

Effie stared at the injured and sick man lying on the low bed in the evening light.

“You can, hey? Willing to put your money where your mouth is, you cheeky young bastard?” she challenged.

Eliot nodded.

“Sure. When I’m back on my feet. _No worries_ ,” he said, copying Effie’s broad Queensland accent.

Effie smiled, which made Eliot recoil as he spotted the yellowing teeth.

“You’re on, mate,” she said. “and I’ve a whole jar of pecans, ready and waiting!”

“Okay. It’s a deal. Oh, an’ Effie?”

“What now, you little mongrel?” she grouched, although there wasn’t much bite in her voice now.

“Your lamingtons are awesome. Thanks.” Eliot said softly.

Effie glared at him and then hobbled off, but Eliot could hear her muttering to herself.

“Young bugger … awesome indeed … of _course_ they’re _bloody awesome_ … they’ve won _prizes_ … “ And as she shut the door behind her, she couldn’t stop smiling.

* * *

Eliot was slow to get back onto his feet. It took him three days before he carefully ventured forth from the bedroom to a recliner on the veranda or an armchair in the Wapanjara living room. Using an old walking stick of Soapy’s, one the pastoralist had used years previously after falling off a horse and cracking his femur, Eliot did his best to get stronger, but the fever took a long time to leave his system, probably due to his being underweight and lacking in the natural reserves of his body.

But he worked at it, and Soapy and Jo watched out for him and left him alone when they thought he needed the time, or sat with him, chatting quietly, when they thought there was a hint of fatalism in his eyes.

Eliot spent a lot of time on the veranda, watching the world go by or listening for the magpies, and he began to learn a little about how the station worked.

Every morning as the sun rose over the horizon, as Eliot settled into his chair on the veranda, Charlie would happen by, usually sitting astride a tough little bay gelding with a roman nose, a horse with a long, raking stride and a deceptively lazy demeanour.

Charlie would yell “Wotcher, Yank!!” and then ask Eliot how he was doing. He would then tell the American what he was up to that day, whether it was mustering a mob of yearlings or fixing the main rabbit fence around the property. Rabbits and dingoes could be a menace, and even the kangaroos could make a mess of a fence.

And the day grew closer, Eliot knew, when he would have to leave and keep these people safe, because he was damned if he would lead Moreau to their door and destroy their happiness and safety and love.

“Hey there, mate. How’re the ribs this morning?” Soapy asked, bringing his early morning cuppa with him after breakfast and sitting down beside Eliot.

“Better,” Eliot murmured. He gazed at the almond tree stand, and saw the flitting shapes of the magpies, their black and white livery stark in the grey softness of the dawn. He glanced at Soapy. “Gotta ask you somethin’ about the night you found me.”

Soapy watched him, his black eyes soft with concern.

“Go on,” he said, taking a sip of tea.

“Did you see a motorbike anyplace near me?”

Soapy shook his head.

“Nope. Not a thing. I take it that was your transport?” he asked. “What happened to you Eliot? How did you get so knocked about, son?”

Eliot leaned forward in his chair and rested his hands on the handle of the walking stick. He supposed that Soapy and Jo deserved an explanation.

“I’ve been movin’ around a lot … maybe six months or so,” he said cautiously. “I flew in from Singapore. I’d been in Asia for a while, and I thought Australia would be a change of scene … plus there’s a lot of it to get lost in, which appealed to me. Thought I’d try and take some time to think instead of …”

“ … avoiding Moreau,” Soapy finished.

Eliot glanced sharply at him. Well, of course Jo would have told him, and rightly so. He gave Soapy a bitter smile.

“Yeah. Moreau.” Eliot took a deep breath. “I’m not a good man, Soapy. I’ve done … _things_ … I ain’t proud of. I stopped feeling years ago. And I thought I could get away from that an’ try and do … _something_ … to make it right. I told him I was leaving, and he told me no-one left his world. I wouldn’t be able to do it, he said. The pull would be too strong. And besides …” Eliot paused, swallowing hard. “He told me that I couldn’t leave, because no-one ever had and survived. That was seven months ago, an’ I’m still alive … just.” He took a deep breath and continued. “This time he almost had me.”

Soapy listened, understanding that Eliot was finally – _finally_ – able to voice, even just a little bit, some of the despair he had been dealing with for years.

“Where?” he asked.

Eliot closed his eyes and remembered.

“There were four of ‘em. It was just by sheer accident that one of ‘em recognised me as I walked out of Darwin airport. They’d just arrived from Adelaide an’ were headin’ out to Bali the following day, an’ they followed me to a hotel. They braced me later that night as I headed out to a restaurant I’d heard of an’ wanted to try.”

“Four?” Soapy said, intrigued. “Did … did you –“

“I didn’t kill ‘em, if that’s what you’re worried about. They weren’t exactly _upright_ when I left ‘em, but they were alive. One of ‘em cut me, but I managed to head back to the hotel, patch myself up, and then hi-tailed it out of there. Next morning, I bought an old bike for cash, stuffed everything I had into a couple of backpacks an’ headed out. I got sick pretty quick, an’ for some reason I headed off the main highway an’ thought your road would be safer. Then I could camp out an’ heal up.” Eliot snorted. “But by then I was so damn sick I couldn’t stay on the goddamn bike. Must be out there someplace along your road. I came off, an’ just began to walk. By then I didn’t care where I went. Then you hit me with your truck.” Eliot smiled softly. “You know the rest.”

Soapy thought about it for a while as he finished his tea, and then stood up to begin his work day.

“Charlie and a couple of the lads are off to Tennant Creek today to pick up some stuff we ordered from Adelaide a couple of weeks ago, and to drop one of ‘em off who’s going home to Darwin on the Ghan*. I’ll ask ‘em to keep an eye out for your bike. If they find it they’ll bring it back here. How does that sound?”

Eliot straightened and eased his still-swollen knee.

“That would be great,” he said. “All my stuff’s on that bike.”

Soapy reached out a hand and squeezed Eliot’s good shoulder.

“You’re okay, Eliot. We think you’re a good ‘un. Jo doesn’t take to bad people, and she’s taken to you. We both have. So stop being so hard on yourself, boy. Heal up, and then decide what you want to do. Stay as long as you wish.”

And then he was gone, and Eliot leaned back in his chair and watched the magpies bicker and sing their fluting song.

As much as he would have loved to stay here in Wapanjara, he knew he had to leave. So this morning, he decided, he would go for a walk and try to get his elusive strength back. Decision made, he slowly stood and opening the screen door, limped down the steps and towards the distant stand of almond trees.

* * *

Jo watched Eliot gimp across the yard towards the trees, and turned to Soapy who was digging out work gloves for his planned chore of fixing a leaky delivery pipe on the bore which brought water to the homestead.

“He’ll be leaving soon, Soapy.”

Soapy nodded.

“He will that, old girl. We can’t expect him to stay forever, y’know. He’s not a pet.”

Jo smiled, but her eyes were sad.

“I know, love. But he’s so … so … _lost_. If he stayed a bit longer, he might figure out whatever he _needs_ to figure out, and be more at peace with himself.”

Soapy leaned over and kissed Jo on the cheek.

“He’s not daft. He’ll work it out, so try not to worry about him too much.”

“Can’t help it, sweetheart. You know me … I’m a soft touch for hurt things, and that boy … he’s hurt in body and soul. I had hoped Wapanjara would work its magic on him and give him some rest.”

Soapy grimaced.

“He has a lot on his mind, especially with this Moreau character. Eliot wants us safe, and the only way he can see that happening is if he leaves. He’s the target and by leaving he makes sure we’re okay. He doesn’t realise we can take care of ourselves.”

Jo frowned, annoyed and upset.

“Well, I want him fit and healed before he goes, if nothing else,” she said.

Soapy watched his wife as she returned to the window to keep an eye on her charge as he went for his walk, worried for him. Soapy sighed. This was going to be hard on both of them.

* * *

Eliot took his time as he wandered along the track towards the almond trees, and he heard the magpies change their cries as he got nearer, a deep warbling chunter that told him he was being watched.

He passed by the garden with the orange grove beyond, the trees evoking a memory for Eliot of deep, bone-aching fever and the fog of memories, alleviated only by the sweet, lush flavour of the juice Jo had so patiently coaxed him to swallow.

It was beautiful here. It brought memories of home, of family … all of the things he had sacrificed over the long years, just to keep his family safe.

He was getting tired and his side ached, so he decided he had gone far enough, and finding the stump of a tree, he sat down, intending to rest for a little while before returning to the homestead.

The morning was warming up quickly, and even on this autumn day the temperature was going to be high. Closing his eyes, Eliot turned his face to the burgeoning sun and felt its warmth on the healing cuts on his face. Jo had been right – there wouldn’t be much of a scar. He spent long minutes absorbing the sounds of the world around him … the buzzing of insects, the ever-present magpies, and the constant chatter of a pair of lorikeets in a nearby gum.

 _Oh well_ , he thought. _Time to move_.

Opening his eyes, he managed to stand and begin to limp back along the track. It was then he realised he was sensing something else … something _big_. It was just a hint of a large animal moving slowly through the stand of almonds. Probably a cow, Eliot thought, although he knew the cattle didn’t move freely about the station – they were usually within the enormous paddocks that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Turning, he tried to see what it was.

It was then that something huge and brown and _very_ noisy erupted from the trees.

Surprised beyond belief, Eliot took a step back, lost his footing and fell, sprawling on the ground as the largest, ugliest, smelliest, most bad-tempered camel he had ever seen came roaring towards him, mouth agape and gurgling threats that would curdle blood and looking as though it was the very devil itself.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s note:**  
  
*The Ghan – the great passenger train which runs between Adelaide, Alice Springs and Darwin. The name is derived from its previous nickname _The Afghan Express_.


	4. Soften A Fiend From Hell

Eliot hit the ground hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He grunted in pure agony as he felt something give in his wounded side and his still-tender shoulder objected to the stress of the impact. Something warm began to trickle down his ribs.

But he didn’t have time to worry about it as the _goddamn camel_ was bearing down upon him, and Eliot twisted and rolled onto his belly, coming up against the side of the stump. Desperately, he used the stick to get up onto his good knee and then he got his elbow onto the edge of the stump and unable to put much weight on his damaged knee, hopped and stood straight, if a little unsteadily.

He turned towards the animal, which, he realised, had slowed down and was clumsily skittering sideways just a few feet away, neck extended and ears back, trying to look as evil as possible with frothy spittle foaming around the prehensile lips. The teeth in the gaping mouth looked long, yellow and very dangerous, and its belching bawl was deafening. It also had very _, very_ bad breath.

Eliot braced himself, breathing heavily, his side on fire and his shoulder and knee throbbing, and he glared at the camel.

The camel glared back.

Eliot had finally had enough. He was tired of running, and tired of being hunted, and he wanted it to be over and now _this_. A _friggin’ camel_ , of all things.

“ _WELL??_ ” He yelled, now thoroughly fed up of being sore and sick and _weak_ , and this stupid, _stupid_ animal thought it could scare the _hell_ out of Eliot Spencer?? “ _C’mon_ , moron!! _Come an’ get me, why don’tcha??_ ” He hopped a couple of steps forward, making the camel take a hesitant but still defiant leap backwards, tail up in alarm.

Eliot sneered, despite the pain he was in.

“Oh, screw this!!” he said.

And taking a few agonising steps forward he punched the surprised camel on the left side of its head.

* * *

“Soapy! Oh god, SOAPY!!” Jo’s voice cracked with fear.

Soapy, on the point of heading out of the door, stopped dead in his tracks at the tone in Jo’s voice, and then hurried to stand beside her as she stood, hand over her mouth, watching Eliot out of the window. Soapy followed her gaze.

“Bloody HELL!” he growled.

A camel. It was a _feral camel_ … and Eliot was down, sprawled on the ground.

Soapy knew he didn’t have time to retrieve his rifle from the gun cabinet in the station office, so he did the next best thing. He ran back to the front door and lifted his stock whip from the hook beside his hat.

Opening the door and almost wrenching it from its hinges, he headed out of the veranda screen door and down the steps, and then he was running, running, towards Eliot and the camel now menacing him, with Jo close behind him.

* * *

The camel bawled, this time with pain, and it back-pedalled, shaking its head, and Eliot grinned nastily.

“Hah!” he growled, “Didn’t like that, huh!!!”

The camel blinked and got its bearings, and the head snaked out again and it let out a few more bawling gurgles, but this time it seemed a little hesitant.

Eliot, ready for battle despite the blood now soaking his shirt from the opened wound in his side, stood and waited.

And waited.

And … _nothing_.

The camel stopped its gurgling and descended into growling grumps of temper, and it eyed Eliot warily.

Eliot snorted.

“Havin’ second thoughts, huh, you big stupid sonofabitch?? Want another smack upsides the head? Well come on, dumb-ass … _make my friggin’ day!_ ” he taunted.

The camel curled its mobile upper lip and gave a frustrated grunt of annoyance.

So, they stood and looked at one another.

Eliot took in the single hump and the big, flat, two-toed feet. He also noticed the large, expressive eye with its double lashes, and the slit-like nostrils which were flared with snorting nervousness.

The camel occasionally grumbled to itself as it watched Eliot take a couple of steps back and carefully seat himself once more on the stump, never once taking his eye off the beast.

It was an _impasse_.

Then Eliot heard voices shouting and then the crack of a whip as Soapy and Jo came to the rescue, and the camel suddenly whirled, small rounded ears laid back, and with a sudden gurgle of what Eliot was sure was terror, it about-turned, loped into the trees and was gone.

But in that split second before it made off, its tail curled over its back in fear, Eliot noticed something else. He saw the deep scars on the beast’s front legs above the fetlock, and the old rope scars on the neck where the longer hair had not grown back.

He also saw that the camel was just about blind in one eye. As it had turned its head to look at Soapy heading towards it, stock whip curling above his head and cracking in the still air, he saw the milky, suppurating right eye, crusted with infection and weeping filth running down the cheek to its jawbone.

No wonder the animal didn’t like people, he thought.

But then Eliot didn’t have time to think any more about it as Soapy and Jo arrived, Soapy curling up his whip as he ran and watching the big animal head into the stand of almond trees and disappearing in the dawn light.

Soapy ran past Eliot for ten yards or so to make sure the camel was gone while Jo dropped down beside the injured American.

“Are you alri – oh god, Eliot! You’re bleeding, son! Let me see!”

Eliot’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He had forgotten the feeling of the wound opening and blood seeping down his side. He looked down. His shirt was sodden with fresh blood.

“Oh … yeah,” he said, “guess I am.” As the adrenaline began to wear off, the pain caused by the fall came back in full force. He gasped as Jo carefully eased the shirt up at his side and gently examined his wound. His shoulder and knee were on fire, and he suddenly felt a little woozy. Jo bunched the shirt and pressed hard, trying to control the bleeding and Eliot grunted with the pain of it.

“Sorry, lad …” Jo said, “but it’s the only way …”

Soapy was there then, cursing quietly to himself and keeping an eye out in case the camel returned, and he dropped down beside Eliot.

“Bloody thing!” he swore, angry as hell, “I’ll get some of the men out to look for it. A bullet’ll stop the bastard in its tracks! Did it bite you –“

Eliot raised a shaky hand and shook his head wearily.

“No … no, I think it was bluffin’ … it didn’t touch me. I was just surprised is all an’ lost my balance … it’s a _goddamn camel!_ ” he added, the wonder still in his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Soapy growled, still annoyed, “they can be a bloody pest, so they can! I’ve not seen any around here for a long time, so where this bugger’s come from I have no idea!”

Eliot hissed as Jo increased the pressure on his wound and he heard her ‘tsk’ of annoyance.

“It’s hurt,” Eliot said quietly.

“All the more reason we should put the bastard out of its misery,” Soapy insisted.

“You wouldn’t let me die, and I’m a helluva lot more dangerous than a camel,” Eliot retorted, unable to keep the strain out of his voice.

Jo and Soapy looked at one another in surprise.

“Eliot, we can’t just let it wander about the station –“

“I never said you should,” Eliot interrupted. Jo could see the stubbornness in his eyes for the first time and smiled inwardly as she tended to his side. Eliot sighed, the tension easing a little. “Look … if you’d met me a year ago you’d have put me down too, like you would a rabid dog.” He gazed into Soapy’s black eyes, and his voice became bitter and the words came out in a sudden rush. “I’m a killer. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. That’s what I do … _did_ … an’ I’ve seen an’ caused more death than you can ever imagine. I’m a danger to you, an’ a danger to your people. The sooner I go the better it is, because I’m a friggin’ ticking time bomb.”

And before Soapy or Jo could answer, he pulled the bunched shirt out of Jo’s hands and stood up, managing somehow to balance using the stick, and pressing the shirt against his still-bleeding side, he wordlessly set off back to the house, lame and hurting and desperately angry.

“Well, _that_ was interesting, if a little alarming!” Jo said. She eased up off her knees and sat down on the stump. “D’you think he meant it?”

Soapy gazed at Eliot’s retreating figure, the American’s back stiff with a combination of pain and indignation.

“Oh yes indeed, old girl … he meant it,” he replied softly. “That’s exactly what he is. A killer.”

“But he’s been a soldier, Soapy … I saw the shrapnel scars in his back, just like yours. That boy’s been in the wars … literally.”

“Yes, love … but he’s been with this Moreau ... whoever the hell he is. I think … I think our Eliot has been lost for a long, long time.”

“But … but he’s trying to make it right,” Jo insisted. “He’s trying to get away from whatever’s been going on in his life. And I think he’s been given a second chance. _We_ can give him a second chance. Just like you were,” she added, settling her hand in Soapy’s.

Her husband helped Jo to her feet, and then Soapy kissed his wife with all of the love he could muster.

“Maybe, love. Maybe. Let’s see how it works out, hey?” Soapy smiled at Jo. “Righto, wife of mine, let’s go and see what that young idiot’s up to and see if you can get him to let you finish patching him up before he keels over and bleeds all over the floor. Effie will disembowel him if he gets blood on the carpet.”

Jo had to smile at the thought of their much-loved housekeeper and cook’s ire.

“Soapy …”

“Yes, sweetheart?” Soapy curled his arm around her as they set off along the track back to the house, watching Eliot painfully make his way up the steps and onto the veranda.

“The camel … Eliot said it was hurt. I have a feeling there’s more to his interest than just concern over the thing. It might be worth finding out a bit more before you shoot it.”

Soapy thought about it for a moment or two, and then sighed.

“I’m not going to get my way on this, am I?”

“Well, no, but you already knew that,” Jo replied somewhat smugly.

“Hmmm …” Soapy said, raising an eyebrow, but didn’t bother trying to change his wife’s mind. “C’mon, you … home.”

And together they walked back to the homestead, in the light and warmth of a brand new day.

* * *

Eliot barely made it to his room. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, head hanging, breath coming in short gasps. The walk back along the track had just about drained every ounce of strength he had left. That, coupled with the familiar desperation beginning to settle on him, nearly drove him to his knees, but he raised his head and gritted his teeth.

“You’re an asshole, Spencer,” he told himself. “You can’t stay here. You’re a fool if you think you deserve this.” Pushing himself away from the door he dropped the stick, stumbled over to the bed and managed to sprawl awkwardly on the covers, stifling a yelp as his shoulder and side objected to the rough treatment.      

He felt a fresh dribble of blood from his wound, and he groaned, hating the helplessness his injuries incurred. Effie would kill him if he made a mess of his bedding.

He had to leave. He had to go from Wapanjara and its kind, decent people and never come back, and then they would be safe and he could deal with Moreau or die in the trying.  

There came a knock on the door.

“Eliot … son … I’m coming in, alright?” Jo’s voice was firm.

“No … I’m okay … leave me – “

“ –alone, yes, I thought you’d say that.” Jo opened the door and entered the room quietly but insistently, bearing a bowl of water and the now-familiar medical kit. She had towels tossed over her shoulder, and Eliot scowled at her as she laid everything down on the bedside table.  

“I can deal with this,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

Jo gave him a side glance as she dug out clean dressings and gauze.

“Of course you can,” she replied. “If you want to head back down the road of being as sick as a parrot and stuck in that bed for another week or two,” she added.

Eliot grunted his reply and tensed as Jo sat beside him on a chair and pulled his hand away from his side. She winced as she saw the mess of drying blood and the gash beginning to look a little red. She laid her hand on his forehead. Eliot was still far from well, and she was worried about him.

“Hmmm … a little warm, but that could just be you getting yourself into a tizz.” She began to clean up blood. “Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on with you, boy?” she asked, a little sternly.

“Jo, I …” Eliot didn’t really know how to explain. For so many years he had just done as ordered … done as he was told. _Without question_. Now he was a man of free will, and he had absolutely no idea how to deal with it. “Ow!!” he said, as Jo pressed a pad on his wound.

“Yes … well … serves you right, taking off in a huff like that, you nerk. If you had two-bob’s-worth of sense you’d have let Soapy help you. But nooo … you had to stalk off like a robber’s dog dripping blood all over the place. Do that again and I’ll get Effie to give you a hefty slap on the noggin to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours. Understand?”

Eliot scowled, brows drawn down in an expression that usually made grown and very nasty men take a step back, but it made no impression on Jo.

“Shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

Jo finished cleaning the gash and made him sit up so she could bandage his ribcage.

“Stop being so bloody dramatic,” she said, tired of the self-pity. “You either leave, laddie, even though you’re in no condition to walk more than a hundred metres without falling over … or you stay, heal and talk to Soapy when you’re ready. He’ll understand,” she added cryptically. She finished bandaging his ribs and patted his side gently. “Now, get some rest, and then figure out what you want to do about your camel when you wake up.”

Now Eliot was confused.

“My camel?? It’s not my camel!”

“Really? So why not let Soapy shoot it?”

“Because –“ Eliot stopped. Why _did_ he prevent Soapy from disposing of the ugly beast? “Because … “ he took a deep breath, and then the words came tumbling from him. “Because it was hurt by humans. Maybe it deserves a second chance … probably more than I do. I have free will – I could have stopped doing what I did years ago. There’s no going back on that … it’s my burden to bear. But that dumb-ass camel got like that because somebody hurt it. _That’s_ why.”

 _Ah_. The battered young man had a soft spot for innocent things. _Just like she did_ , Jo thought. Whatever he had been … whatever he had done … this animal had stirred something in him that was new and small and fragmentary … but it was there nevertheless.

But now … Eliot needed to regain his strength and his heart and his soul would follow, she was sure.

“I’ll wake you in a couple of hours and then you’ll eat something. Do you understand? You need to eat, my boy, because if you carry on like this you’re not going to survive.”

Eliot shook his head.

“Nah. It’ll take more than _this_ –“ he gestured at his side, “to kill me.”

Jo smiled ruefully.

“I’m not talking about your hurts, Eliot,” she said, and reached forward to touch his chest, over his heart. “You need to survive here …” and then she placed a finger on his forehead, “ … and here.”

And after helping Eliot into a clean teeshirt she had borrowed from one of their stockmen she gathered up the detritus of gauze and bloody water and medical supplies, and stood up to leave.

But before she left the room, she gestured at the bed.

“Sleep!” She ordered.

Eliot, somewhat perplexed, eased himself onto his pillows, and relaxed.

“ _Yes ma’am!_ ” he said.

* * *

The day passed slowly and comparatively serenely. Eliot did as he was told and slept, and then ate, and then slept some more. By sunset he was back in his recliner on the veranda, listening once more to the flight of galahs and the wittering calls of the magpies. He realised he was beginning to fit into the timeless rhythm of Wapanjara and its inhabitants.

He heard the sound of the ute as it headed towards the homestead, and he eased himself to his feet and slowly limped down the veranda steps as the vehicle and its occupants drove around the house and into the yard. He was relieved to see an old motorbike strapped onto the flat-bed.

Charlie slid out of the driver’s side and reaching over the back of the seat, pulled out two backpacks.

“G’day, Yank! I think this lot belongs to you!”

Eliot, for the first time since coming to Wapanjara, broke into a broad grin.

“Hey, man … thanks!” He shook Charlie’s hand and peered over the side of the flat-bed to look at his motorbike. He winced. The forks were dented and the wheel itself was caved in. Whatever he had hit had mangled his bike. He realised he had been lucky to walk away from it, although the memory of the actual impact was very hazy. “What did I hit?” he asked Charlie somewhat sheepishly.

Charlie grinned.

“You must’ve veered off the road, come off and the bike hit the stump of a mulga. Bit of a mess, hey? Some bike though! Ducati, right? Where did you get it?”

Eliot had to think for a moment, and then he remembered.

“Bought it from a drunk in Darwin who needed the cash. Ducati 450 Scrambler. But I'd’ve bought a damn Vespa if it would’ve got me where I was goin’. Needs some work now though, huh.”

Charlie let down the tailgate and leaped in, unstrapping the Ducati. The other stockman who had gone to Tennant Creek with Charlie slid out the narrow metal ramp they kept in the ute and between them they manhandled to bike out of the vehicle.

Charlie balanced the bike on its thankfully undamaged kick-bar, and checked the machine over. He studied the damage, and then straightened and laid a gentle hand on Eliot’s good shoulder.

“No worries, mate. We’ll see what we can do with her. She’s a good sort, and it’ll be fun to see if we can get her right. Okay?”

Eliot nodded, still nonplussed at the kindness of these people to whom he was a virtual stranger.

“Thanks, Charlie. I owe you one.”

“Make that a six-pack of Foster’s and we’re even,” the young man countered.

“You got a deal,” Eliot answered. “And thanks again for bringin’ back my stuff.”

Charlie hoisted the backpacks on his shoulder, and before Eliot could say anything, carried them into the house and dumped them on Eliot’s bed. Then he left the American alone and shut the door behind him.

Eliot eased down onto the bed and slowly began to unpack his belongings. He was sure the backpacks hadn’t been tampered with. Eliot packed his belongings with design and purpose, and everything seemed to be in its right order.

He pulled out each item of clothing separately, unfolding as he went, and found the money and six passports in different names exactly where they should have been. Digging deeper, he eased out the old Ka-Bar knife he had purchased from a pawnbroker on the morning after the attack, followed by a sniper’s scope. He put both in the drawer of his bedside cabinet. They were typical souvenirs of an army veteran, so he didn’t see why he should hide them.

The money he slid into his wallet. Now he was able to pay his way if he needed to, but the passports he left in their envelope, and he pushed them under the pile of clothes he left in the small wardrobe.

After he had finished, he lay down on his bed, closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

When the next day dawned, bright and clear, Eliot quietly rose from his bed, managed to change into clean clothes and headed to the kitchen. Effie was too busy making breakfast for the stockmen, and didn’t really care that Eliot snaffled four apples from the big fruit bowl on the huge table. Then he asked if he could have a flask of tea as he was going for a walk, and Effie, grumbling to herself, told him he could bloody well make it himself and dug out a flask from the cupboard and gave it to him.

Eliot put the apples and tea-filled flask into one of his now empty backpacks, and then went into the living room and looked for a book to read, which he also slipped into the backpack. The last addition to his little cache was his pair of spectacles.

Limping out into the warming day, he was soon walking slowly along the track towards the almond trees, the magpies watching him and warbling to themselves as he reached the stump on which he had rested the previous day.

There, he sat down and rummaging in his pack, brought out the flask and book. Putting on his spectacles, he poured himself a mug of tea, opened the book, and patiently settled down to wait.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s note:** There are about 600,000 feral camels or dromedaries in Australia. Frequently regarded as an invasive pest, especially as the bulls can be dangerous, they are slowly being brought back into use for tourism (especially trekking), and, would you believe, in camel dairies. Camel milk is very good for everyone. Apparently.


	5. We Are Fighting With Fate

The camel didn’t appear that first day … nor the next. But one thing Eliot had in spades was patience. He read his book, drank a lot of tea and waited.

Soapy really wasn’t too sure what the young man was up to, but Jo had that secret look of satisfaction and understanding on her face every time she peered out of the window and watched her charge quietly pass long hours sitting on the old tree stump. Even if the camel never turned up, at least he was resting and beginning to heal.

Eliot began to love his morning excursion. When he finished his book, he found another, and then he found a small blanket left out on the kitchen table for him one morning, alongside his tea and apples, as well as a sample of whatever Effie was baking that day.

For the first time in over a decade he discovered the joy of just _being_.

As his knee improved, he began to sit on the ground on his blanket, back propped against the stump, and he would listen to the world around him. He heard the gentle hum of the little, stingless, sugarbag bees, working away from their nest in a gnarly old weeping paperbark, and their nest was so well-hidden it had taken Eliot hours to find it, simply by watching the worker bees on their trips home. He never grew tired of watching these little black bees working away so diligently.

Apart from the ever-present magpies and the flocks of galahs, the almond stand was alive with sound and movement, from small lizards to a large goanna who ambled along the track one morning and was very surprised to see a shaggy-haired human sprawled against a tree stump, drinking tea and watching him. The goanna stood up on his hind legs, curious, but after a while he grew bored and went slowly on his way. He became so used to Eliot that the big lizard would scramble over the man’s outstretched legs, too lazy to go around the obstacle in his path.

And so over the next few weeks, Eliot rested and ate and gained a little of his strength back, and settled seamlessly into the Wapanjara landscape.

His recovery was slow. The combination of his injuries, exhaustion and weight loss as well as the lingering fever had dominoed to bring him to a state where he was finding it difficult to bounce back quickly, which frustrated him. But it also gave him the luxury of feeling a little more human, something he hadn’t allowed himself since he was eighteen years old and newly in the army and out to save the world.

It was nearly a month after Eliot’s dramatic arrival at Wapanjara, as the autumn weather cooled at night and Eliot began to wear a jacket on his morning excursions that his routine suddenly changed.

He had been sitting on the dry ground, spectacles on and reading a guide on ‘bush tucker’*, which in Eliot’s business of staying alive no matter what environment in which he found himself, was immensely useful. His mug of tea, steaming in the early morning cool air, sat beside him along with one of Effie’s scones still warm from the oven and dripping with butter and marmalade.

He heard, very faintly, a soft, rumbling gurgle.

Eliot tensed, and forced himself to be as still and as non-threatening as possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. Among the almond trees and acacias he saw patches of brown hide, and then he heard a slow, rhythmic chewing.

And, after weeks of waiting, Eliot watched the camel as it wandered along the track, prehensile lips tugging at the acacias. Its damaged eye, still weeping and infected, was turned towards him and it didn’t notice Eliot as he slowly eased himself up onto the stump so that he could get out of the way more easily if the animal decided to get aggressive.

Eliot waited for the camel to notice him. He knew he was in a very dangerous situation but he knew he had to do something. He didn’t know why – perhaps it was more humane for Soapy to put the beast down, especially as the eye was so badly infected, and the creature must be in intense discomfort.

Finally, the big head turned towards him and the camel’s nostrils flared as it caught Eliot’s scent. The rounded ears flicked forward and the camel turned its good eye towards Eliot and the mouth opened in what was a defensive roar.

Eliot forced himself to stay still as the camel skittered sideways in surprise and fear, and the big dromedary snaked out its head in anger, although Eliot realised it was more in bluff than anything else.

His body taut with tension Eliot stared back at the camel, which made the thing nervous, so Eliot decided he had the upper hand. He dropped his gaze and the camel’s growls and rumbles subsided to a couple of barping gurgles, and the head swayed from side to side, the camel’s good eye wide and rolling.

“Not so tough, huh,” Eliot murmured, and to his surprise one of the camel’s ears flicked forward at the sound of his soft voice. “You listenin’ now, you dumb bastard?” The other ear swivelled around and Eliot smiled to himself. “Ain’t gonna hurt you. You just keep listenin’, asshole, and if you calm down at some point maybe I can see if I can do somethin’ for that eye of yours, okay?”

He slowly reached out beside him and grasped an apple.

The camel started in fear, but this strange human seated on the stump didn’t seem to be as aggressive as it had thought, so it waited to see what the man would do next. Then it caught a whiff of apple.

Eliot gently tossed the apple towards the camel’s big feet, and it rolled to a halt just by its off-fore. The camel gurgled a little, but the human didn’t do anything else threatening, so it waited for a minute or two as Eliot leaned over and lifted his mug of tea and his scone off his blanket.

“Go on …“ Eliot said quietly, “It’s your apple. Help yourself.”

He took a sip of his tea, which warmed his chest and settled the hammering of his heart, and the bite of the scone made him smile. Effie was one _hell_ of a cook. He couldn’t stop a murmur of pleasure at the warmth and sweetness of the scone and the marmalade, and the camel stuck out a long tongue and chomped its lips. The slit-like nostrils quivered.

And gathering its courage it dropped its big, ugly head down to the apple and whiffled it about for a moment before inhaling the ripe fruit into its mouth and crunched the apple, bottom jaw working rhythmically as it ate.

Eliot grinned. _Gotcha_.

He made the camel wait for its next treat, and the animal, still jittery and nervous, hung around warily. Eliot knew it could smell the other apples, but he took his time and finished off his scone, licking the last errant crumb from the corner of his mouth. He took another sip of tea and swallowed, enjoying the growing heat of the morning.

He lifted another apple.

“You want this?”

The camel harrumphed to itself and let out a rumble in its chest.

“Okay … here ya go.”

He tossed the apple just a few feet away, half-way between the camel and where he sat on the stump.

The camel thought about it for a moment or two and then overcame its caution and walked forward a few steps, reached down and ate the apple. When it finished, it looked at Eliot expectantly.

“Another one, huh? You’re just easy,” he said with laughter in his voice. Eliot discovered he was enjoying himself. He lifted the third apple and dropped it at his feet. “There you are. Have at it,” he said with a chuckle.

This time there was no hesitation and the camel reached out and rolled the apple away from Eliot’s feet with its mobile lips and scrunched the treat with relish.

As it ate, Eliot drank his tea, and the pair of them took the measure of each other.

Eliot studied the animal properly, now that he had the time to do so. He noticed a double scar, one on each side of the animal’s nose. Eliot frowned. He had seen the cause of this scar in Saudi Arabia and Afganistan, where a long peg was inserted through the septum of the camel’s sensitive muzzle. He also had a good look at the camel’s injured eye, and winced. He knew that even if the eye was treated, the animal had lost its vision in that eye permanently.

“Maybe we’ll be able to clean that up for you if you learn to trust me, you big idiot,” he said softly, his voice full of sympathy. He had to admit he didn’t like seeing an animal hurt.

Sometimes he preferred animals to humans, especially in the life he had led for the past decade and more. Humans more often than not were out for themselves, and in his line of work often wanted to kill him. And he killed _them_. Animals … they were just _animals_. No more … no less. No hidden agenda … no sub-text. They just _were_.

The camel yawned, showing those wicked, yellowed teeth, and licked its lips.

“Want the last apple?” Eliot asked, and the camel listened. “Well, you’re just gonna have to trust me.” And taking a deep breath, he held out the apple, letting it rest on the palm of his hand.

The camel shifted and flicked its ears and cranked itself up to take the plunge. The long neck stretched out and the head slowly inched forward, and Eliot couldn’t stop a huff of delight as the soft, velvet lips tickled his hand and managed to roll the apple off his palm and into the creature’s mouth. He was even more pleased when the camel took a couple of steps forward, coming to a halt only three feet from Eliot as it ate the apple with eager, noisy crunches.

Leaning back Eliot relaxed a little and finished off his tea.

The camel watched him expectantly, licking its lips, cleaning one side and then the other.

Eliot carefully gathered up his belongings, fairly sure now that the camel wouldn’t attack, and he relaxed.

“Okay, numb-nuts … I’m heading back. Maybe if you come back tomorrow, you’ll get more apples. But that’s enough for one day. See ya.”

And standing up, he shifted his backpack onto one shoulder and ignoring the camel, he set off down the track. Just for a few steps, he heard the camel begin to follow him before its caution got the better of it and the animal halted, turned, and began to amble back into the almond tree stand, and Eliot turned to watch. It seemed content and it took its time, flicking its tail. It was then that Eliot discovered it was female.

 _Hmmm …_ he thought. _I’ll have to think of a name_.

And not even considering that giving her a name meant that he would be staying at Wapanjara longer than even he had expected, Eliot headed back to the homestead, his heart lighter than he would ever have anticipated during the dark, ugly years of his life.

* * *

“Well, will you look at that!” Soapy breathed, his chin on Jo’s shoulder as he stood behind his wife with his arms around her.

They were watching Eliot through the window, and saw the whole episode unfold. The camel arriving and Eliot just being still and calm and patient, and Soapy knew then that the American had a way about him with animals. He understood them … could read their instincts and intent, and he had the patience and calmness of spirit that animals responded to.

Jo, thrilled at Eliot’s progress, couldn’t be prouder.

“See? I told you he could do it!”

“Yes indeed, old girl, but what is he going to do with it now? I don’t have a use for a camel, and … “ Soapy shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. If it helps the boy, then we’ll deal with it. At least it’ll stop him sliding back into whatever it is that makes him so angry. He’s been a bit shaky lately,” Soapy added.

Eliot had been frustrated with his progress, especially when his strength failed him or he became tired long before he was ready to give up what he was trying to do. He had wanted to get back on horseback, but the walk to the barn and cattle yards had worn him out. He couldn’t understand why he was so … _useless_.

Jo tried to make him understand that the fever had been fierce and his condition had been very poor, and it had dragged him down more than he had realised. But he was stubborn, and pushed himself and suffered for it, but Jo just picked on him gently when he felt bad, or teased him into a smile when he was grouchy.

But this time, he came into the big kitchen with a soft smile on his face and determination in his heart.

Soapy went back to his breakfast, and Effie poked Eliot’s arm and waved at him irritably.

“Sit down, you young bugger, and eat your breakfast,” she complained. “Go on! Get your skinny arse on that chair and drink your orange juice!”

Eliot sat down and did as he was told, and Effie dumped a large steak and a couple of eggs on his plate, as well as a rack of toast with glistening butter waiting to be spread on it. The calorie intake, Eliot knew, was horrific, but the food gave hard-working stockmen the energy to work long, hard days in a difficult environment. He wondered if Effie would mind if he made an avocado salsa to go with it one day. But he tucked into the steak with gusto, and Jo was pleased to see his appetite returning. His weight was improving too, and she now knew he was on the mend.

There was no talking as they ate, as Soapy had to be at the yards that morning to sort through fatstock, but once they finished their steaks, Eliot had a question.

“Soapy … you got anything to treat pink-eye?”

Soapy looked at Jo and then at Eliot.

“No worries – we’ve got a good ointment we use. You want to try and treat that camel?”

Eliot shrugged.

“She’s been handled before. She’s got a peg scar on her nose an’ hobble an’ rope scars on her legs an’ neck. By the look of her she’s been bad-used. You think I can get some of that stuff?”

“She?”

“Yeah. It’s a girl-camel,” Eliot said, smiling wryly. “She’s all piss an’ wind, really – she’s just got trust issues, I guess,” he added.

“Hmmm …” Jo said, “Just like someone else I know.” She looked at Eliot and raised her eyebrows.

Eliot scowled for a moment, but he was in too much of a good humour to rise to the bait. He buttered a piece of toast and spread Effie’s strawberry jam on it.

“I got to get her trustin’ me more though. It’ gonna take a little while, an’ I got to find a way of haltering her without upsettin’ her. She’ll be head-shy with that eye an’ all that scarring, an’ I think I’ll maybe … “ he thought about it for a moment. “A horse halter won’t fit. Soapy … what about some soft rope? Could I make her a _bosal?_ ”

Soapy nodded.

“Suppose I can find something. If not, we can order camel supplies from Tennant Creek next time we’re in, if you want.”

Eliot knew that there was no internet connection at Wapanjara, and the Munros didn’t even have a television. They relied on a land-line and a radio set-up.

“I’d like to make it myself,” he said quietly.

“No worries, lad. Come with me down to the yards this morning and we’ll see what we can find. I’m sure between us we’ll find something you can work with.”

They all sat quietly for a moment before Effie sat down beside them.

“Well Yank … you got a name for the hairy big bastard?” she asked.

Eliot smiled, his eyes warm with laughter.

“I had a great aunt who was the bane of my Momma’s life when she was a kid. A bit like you, Effie,” he added, which made Effie curse under her breath. “She was all noise an’ anger an’ attitude. But if you ever had a problem, she would do everythin’ she could to help out, an’ she complained an’ bitched about it every inch of the way. I think … I think I’m gonna name the camel after her.” He grinned. “Momma would’ve been tickled to death about that one. Me namin’ a camel after the great aunt from hell.”

“So … her name …??” Jo asked.

Eliot munched his way through a slice of toast and jam, and swallowed.

“Gertie. I’m gonna call her Gertie,” he said.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 

  **Author’s note:**

*’Bush Tucker Field Guide’ – by the incomparable Les Hiddins. If you’re ever going to find yourself stuck in the outback in Northern Australia, this is the book which will keep you alive. 


	6. By Tangled Scrub and Forests

Eliot spent the rest of the day at the drafting yards, watching Soapy, Charlie and a handful of stockmen sort and grade fat bullocks, and after lunch he was introduced to Moke, the gentle lop-eared old mare who Charlie thought would help Eliot back into the saddle – although looking at the stock saddles, Eliot wondered how different the riding style would be.

The deep seat and thigh and knee pads looked comfortable enough, but the high cantle and surcingle which passed over the seat was like nothing he had ever seen before. The stirrup leathers were wide, and the stirrups of the English style. The saddle was more forward than usual, and was secured further by a crupper and breastplate. He couldn’t wait to try it.

Tired but content after an interesting morning, Eliot sat in the paddock on a rock and relaxed with Moke, pulling her lop-ears and scratching all of the itchy places the mare insisted she had. They became firm friends.

But Eliot’s mind was full of how he was going to deal with Gertie. Charlie had dug out some soft rope which Eliot could make into a makeshift _bosal_ , but he _really_ needed more information on how to take care of a camel.

Eliot shook his head in wonder, even as Moke rubbed her head on his chest, hoping for more fussing. Here he was, in the far northern part of outback Australia and recovering from injury and sickness and doing his best to stay out of Damien Moreau’s far-reaching grasp, and he was fixating on a _friggin’ camel_ , of all things.

 _But_ … for the first time in years, he felt grounded … in touch with something deep inside him that felt … _right_. He had to do this. He _needed_ to do this. He needed the focus, because without it, he was as lost as he had ever been.

Eliot knew he couldn’t stay at Wapanjara. He would have to leave, sooner rather than later, as he knew no matter how remote, Moreau could well find him. Eliot didn’t want to endanger these good, decent people who had gone to great lengths to help him figure out what he needed to do next. He would leave … but he would take their gift of caring with him in his heart, and make sure Gertie was safe and healed.

He went to sleep that night listening to the guttural cough of a possum rootling around under the veranda, and the ‘woof-woof’ of a Barking Owl away in the almond stand, and the scent of jasmine and roses drifting on the cool night air through his open window.

And, at last, for the first time in over a decade, his sleep was free from the nightmares of his past.

* * *

A trip to Tennant Creek with Charlie the following day for supplies had been very rewarding. He ordered two books on camel management and kit from the town’s small book shop, and then he ordered parts for the Ducati at a local garage as well as buying feed and other supplies he thought he might need for Gertie at a feed store.

His last purchase was a cheap pre-paid cell ‘phone. More or less untraceable, he would use it to make tentative plans for his future.

Eliot spent the last half-hour of his visit in a coffee shop, drinking a good latte with a lamington, which although tasty, was nothing on Effie’s magnificent creations. He made a couple of discreet calls, and then finishing his coffee, headed off to pick up his feed order and to meet up with Charlie. And, as a last-minute treat just before they headed home, he bought Gertie a sack of carrots.

* * *

The next morning he hefted his backpack and wandered down the track to the almond tree stand.

Mist wreathed the ground and the acacias were faint ghosts in the early dappling light, and the magpies didn’t notice him until he was near to his tree stump. There, standing like a great big hairy statue, was Gertie.

Eliot wondered if she had been there the previous day, when he hadn’t appeared, but she had still returned and was awaiting her treats.

She grumphed at him, gurgling softly, but she was still wary of him and skittered slightly as he unshipped his backpack and dug out some of the contents. Within minutes Eliot was seated on the blanket-draped stump, and then he poured himself a mug of tea and slipped on his spectacles. Opening his book, he began to read.

Gertie stared at him and licked her lips. Then she nodded her head up and down, lower lip flapping, and frothy spittle flew everywhere including over Eliot, who scowled at her and wiped off the drops with his sleeve.

“Stop, you moron!” he scolded before returning to his book.

He made Gertie wait for another ten minutes until he finished a chapter, and then without looking at her, he put down his book, stowed his spectacles in his shirt pocket and lifted his backpack. Gertie’s ears pricked and she gurgled to herself.

Rummaging in the backpack, Eliot brought out a foil-wrapped package which contained three of Effie’s rich and syrupy coconut Anzac biscuits.

Taking a sip of tea and then eating one of the biscuits, he gave Gertie a sidelong glance. She was watching him intently with her one good eye, and her ears flicked. Then she lowered her head and began to moan.

Eliot discovered in that moment that Gertie was an habitual complainer. She groaned and whined and gurgled, and when that got no response she began to shift from foot to foot, the complaining getting louder and louder, and then if that wasn’t enough, she stretched out her neck until she was gazing deeply into Eliot’s face. Then she yawned extravagantly and gave a hefty burp.

The stench was _appalling_.

“ _Sonofa –_ “ Eliot gasped, recoiling, “ _Jeez!!_ ” He glared at Gertie accusingly. “You did that on purpose, you crazy goddamn –“

Gertie huffed and shut up, her ears aimed at Eliot. _Now_ she had his attention.

Eliot took the hint. He supposed he had kept her waiting for probably a whole ten minutes too long, so he lifted his backpack. Gertie fidgeted as only a camel can, big feet shuffling with eagerness.

And out of the backpack came a carrot.

Gertie gaped, lower lip flapping, and she honked quietly. Taking a couple of steps towards Eliot, she extended her neck and waited as Eliot held the carrot by its top end and offered it to her, pointy end first.

Gertie’s tongue and lips stretched out and with infinite gentleness, she somehow managed to suck the carrot out of Eliot’s hand and into the gaping, yellow-toothed maw. She crunched the carrot with considerable relish, her eyes half-closed with pleasure.

Eliot grinned and settled down to finish his tea and biscuits, but Gertie finished her carrot before Eliot was half-way through the second of his Anzacs. Rubbery soft lips reached out and whiffled at Eliot’s biscuit-bearing hand and tried to steal the delicacy, but Eliot wasn’t having it and taking a chance, he carefully pushed her away.

“Hey, fuzz-face, that’s mine! I’ll get you another carrot in a minute, okay?”

And he shuffled around so that his back was to Gertie. The camel didn’t take the hint. The moaning began again, and Gertie lipped at Eliot’s back and then worked her way up to his hair, and Eliot cringed away from the hot, foul-smelling breath. Then he felt something wet. Oh _god_ … Gertie was _licking his neck_.

He tried his best to bat her away, but Gertie was insistent, and Eliot shrank from the camel’s smelly attention.

“Hey-hey- _hey!_ Stop it, will ya??” he growled, and then made the ultimate mistake – he hastily pulled another carrot from the backpack and shoved it at Gertie, who groaned with delight. The carrot was gone in seconds.

As Eliot did his best to finish his tea and Anzacs, Gertie gave him her full attention. She licked his neck and his jacket, rubbed her face on his back and then ruffled his hair with her prehensile lips until it stuck up in damp camel-licks. She gurgled and groaned and grunted, but not once, Eliot realised, was she really pushy. Every move was gentle and enquiring, and he wondered whether she was trained to behave kindly or whether it was just part of her nature.

He drained his mug of tea and managed to eat his last Anzac, and then doing his best to work around Gertie’s attentions, Eliot put away his mug and flask and turned around to face Gertie.

The camel was gazing at Eliot with expectant adoration.

Eliot decided it was time to see how tame Gertie actually was. Just because she was food-orientated didn’t mean she was amenable to being handled. He took a deep breath, and reaching out his right hand, he laid it on Gertie’s velvet muzzle and began to very gently scratch.

Gertie started in surprise, but before she could decide whether to back off or not, the fingers rubbing and scratching around her muzzle and chin sent her instantly into camel rapture. Her eyes closed and she extended her neck, leaning into Eliot’s touch, and she gurgled quietly to herself, chomping in delight, cheeks huffing out.

“Huh,” Eliot said, surprised. “You like that, do ya?” he said gruffly. Reaching out his other hand, he began to rub the base of one of Gertie’s ears, and the camel just melted with pleasure.

It was then Eliot realised that Gertie was _his_. He ran his hands over the soft muzzle and up between the big, expressive eyes, scratching at the wiry curls on her brow. He felt the powerful muscles of her neck, and he gently tugged her ears, talking to her all the time … quiet, soft murmurs, undefinable noises that Gertie answered with little squeaky rumbles.

“Okay, gal …” he said finally, “let’s see if you’ll let me look at that eye …” And stroking her jaw to make Gertie stretch her head out a little, he ran his other hand around the swollen flesh of Gertie’s infected eye. Gertie grumbled a little in protest, but she didn’t do anything and allowed Eliot to explore the damage.

Eliot winced in sympathy. The eye was a mess, with the cornea already deeply ulcerated.

“I know, darlin’ … I know … but if you let me put some stuff in there to deal with the nasties, I have a couple more carrots for you. How does that sound?”

He gave Gertie a nose-rub, and then delving into his jacket pocket, he brought out a small tube of ophthalmic antibiotic ointment. Gertie stood stock-still as Eliot cracked the sealed cover and readied the tube so that the ointment would immediately flow over the surface of the eye.

“Now, crazy … I’ll try not to hurt you, but you’ve gotta be still, alright? We’ve gotta do this every day until you heal up, so let’s see how well-behaved you can be.” He stroked her soft muzzle and then once more began a chin-scratch. Gertie grunted with delight.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Eliot grasped the ointment and positioning it over the inner canthus of Gertie’s eye, he squeezed the tube, and in a second the yellowish greasy substance ran steadily over the eye’s surface before Gertie could even react to the feel of the ointment.

The camel jerked her head a little, but she soon realised the feeling wasn’t painful and relaxed back into Eliot’s ministrations.

“Good girl …” he murmured, pleased, “Who’s a clever camel …” and he very, _very_ gently eased the ointment over the damaged eye and under the lids. “Let’s see if that helps, huh. Want a carrot?”

Gertie hummed to herself as the ointment soothed the eye a little, and Eliot dropped the empty tube into his jacket pocket and carried on with the scratching as he fed the big dromedary the remaining two carrots, which Gertie ate ravenously.

“That’s all I got, gal. I’ll bring you more tomorrow, okay?” Eliot smiled to himself, a sense of achievement he hadn’t felt in forever surging through him. Gertie began to rest her head on Eliot’s shoulder, and as the weight became heavier and heavier, he began to sag a little. But he didn’t complain. She trusted him. This dumb-ass big, hairy beast _trusted him_.

And that, for Eliot Spencer, was something new. And it felt _good_.

* * *

For the next week, Eliot and Gertie began to figure each other out.

Gertie began to understand Eliot was no pushover and that she would have to behave if she was to get treats and scratches. Eliot treated her eye every day, and he brought a hard brush with him and began to work his way over Gertie’s hide, easing out tight tangles in the short curls over her neck and shoulders. Gertie turned out to be very ticklish, but she _loved_ being brushed.

He spent more and more time with the beast, and Jo became used to seeing Eliot sitting on the ground with his back against the stump, reading and drinking his tea as Gertie sat down, folding her legs under her and shifting a little to get comfortable, and then she began to chew her cud. After several days she started stretching out her neck along the ground and resting her head against Eliot’s stiff knee. There she would doze, ears flicking in the heat as the flies annoyed her, and Eliot would absently stroke the twitching, velvet muzzle as he read.

 _Now what_? Jo thought as she watched him from the veranda.

Eliot had broken the ice with the animal, but what on earth was he going to do with her? Right now, Gertie was just a wild animal who had made friends with a human. Eliot had no idea what Gertie had suffered during her lifetime, or what might upset her or even trigger aggression.

The camel never followed Eliot to the house. Gertie would get nervous if she travelled too far from the trees, but Eliot never tried to push her beyond her comfort zone. But, he knew, he would have to halter her soon. She would have to learn to become more sociable and get over her issues, because she couldn’t stay in limbo. She was either a wild camel which was a menace and liable to be shot, or a tame camel which would fit into station life somehow.

Ten days after Eliot began treating Gertie’s eye, he sat that evening in the homestead living room, finishing off the _bosal_ he was making for Gertie. It would be gentle on her damaged muzzle but would also give him a modicum of control.

His plan, after talking to Soapy, was to entice – or better still, lead - Gertie into a small grassy paddock once used for milk cows for the household, but now regarded as being too small to be much use for horses, which lived in the much bigger paddock by the barns. But it would be roomy enough for one large camel, with an old mulga tree for shade and plenty of water.

But Eliot needed more information before he took this next step. The following day he would be going to Tennant Creek with Soapy and Jo, and he could collect his books and find out more about what made camels tick.

Jo looked up from doing her crossword.

“Gertie’s doing well, then,” she asked quietly.

Eliot nodded, still focused on the _bosal_.

“Yeah … I guess,” he said, his voice low.

“And you, son. How are _you?_ ” Jo pressed.

Eliot glanced up from his work and smiled at Jo.

“Doin’ okay. Better,” he answered as he fitted a sleeve of soft leather over the nose band of the _bosal_ so that the rope wouldn’t rub the scar on Gertie’s nose. “Sleepin’ easier,” he admitted after hesitating a moment or two.

Jo nodded.

“So I’ve noticed. You’re looking better, too. You’ve gained a little weight, lad. It suits you.”

“Good food, good people,” Eliot replied almost under his breath. He finished what he was doing and sat back. “Jo … you an’ Soapy … I can’t … I mean …” he struggled for the right words and finally settled on just one. “Thanks.”

Jo had to stifle a grin.

“You’re very welcome, son.” She stood up and stretched. “C’mon. Let’s get some tea and see if we can pry some cake out of Effie’s clutches.”

Eliot put the completed _bosal_ to one side, and as he followed Jo out of the living room and into the kitchen, he wished with all of his heart that he didn’t have to leave.

* * *

Eliot discovered he enjoyed the day-long round trip to Tennant Creek.

His books had arrived at the book store, so he paid for them and then headed to the garage to collect the parts for the Ducati. The garage was on a side street, shadowed by stringybark trees and set back from the street itself. A small bench and table were set outside for customers, and it was here Eliot sat as he waited for Soapy and Jo to finish their errands and pick him up.

“G’day, mister …uh …” came a voice.

Eliot looked up to see a small, spare man in mechanic’s overalls leaning against the doorway to the office, obviously expecting Eliot to introduce himself.

Eliot twitched a mirthless smile but didn’t reply.

“You the fella with the Ducati?” the man asked, seemingly unfazed by Eliot’s lack of response.

Eliot eyed the man. He knew rural communities bred curiosity, and coming from small-town Oklahoma made him very aware of the tendency to grill strangers about their backgrounds. Usually the questions were innocent enough, and were often accompanied by genuine interest, but this man … the hairs on the back of Eliot’s neck prickled.

“Ducati … that’s an expensive bike, mate. You bring it over from the States?”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed. He had never met the man before, yet he knew Eliot was an American even though he hadn’t yet spoken to the fellow. But that could still be innocent enough. This man … ‘Billy’ it said on the name patch on his overalls … probably heard it from his boss. But still …

“Just a project bike,” Eliot said easily. “Riding through the Territory. It broke down,” he added.

Billy grinned, showing gappy, tobacco-stained teeth.

“You stayin’ local?” he asked, just a little too intensely.

“Passin’ through,” Eliot replied. “Just around ‘till the bike’s fixed.” He arranged his face into an amiable smile.

He was saved from further interrogation by a car horn honking, and he looked street-wards to see Soapy and Jo in their battered old ute pull in beside the garage.

Soapy eased out of the driver’s side and nodded to Billy.

“’Day, Bill.”

“G’day, Soapy,” Billy answered, and then waved at Jo, still in the ute. “Picking up?” he gestured at Eliot.

Soapy looked guarded.

“Yeah … you ready?” he asked Eliot.

“I’m ready,” Eliot replied, standing up and tucking his books under one arm. “Got the parts I ordered, so we can go eat,” he said.

Soapy nodded, and lifting the two replacement Marzocchi forks and the new headlamp guard, placed them on the flatbed of the ute.

Eliot nodded at Billy, wandered past Soapy and eased himself into the back seat of the ute without saying another word. Soapy got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove the ute away from the garage and into the mid-day haze.

Billy stood and watched the vehicle as it disappeared into the distance, and then moved slightly to let a man emerge from the office behind him.

The man was of medium height and wearing a lightweight tropical suit.

“That him?” he asked, following Billy’s gaze. His accent was pure Brooklyn.

Billy nodded.

“Yeah – that’s the yank,” he said.

“Did he leave a name?” Brooklyn asked.

“Nah. Paid cash for the parts and said he’d pick ‘em up next time he was in town,” Billy explained. “But I know where he’s staying,” he added hopefully.

The New Yorker just stared at him, and Billy wilted a little.

“He, ah … he’s staying at Wapanjara,” the mechanic said. “With the Munros.”

Brooklyn nodded.

“How far away?”

“Getting on for a hundred an’ fifty clicks,” Billy told him. “It’s bloody remote, mate – an’ not easy to find,” he added warily.

Brooklyn smiled, a slow, toothy smile oozing menace.

“Well, I’m sure you can help me with that,” he said. “Find me the place on that map I gave you.”

Billy nodded wordlessly and with a nervous smile he headed back into the garage office while Brooklyn pulled out a cell-phone. Speed-dialling a number, he waited for a few moments and then spoke.

“It’s me,” he said quietly but with a hint of triumph. “I think I’ve found him.”

 

To be continued …


	7. Where The Brolgas Dance

Eliot discovered a lot of things about camels.

For a start, they didn’t actually _spit_. It was more like vomiting, in that they brought up the contents of their stomach and this, mixed with saliva, could be a rather nasty experience for whoever was on the receiving end of a mouthful of partly-digested food.

He also discovered that Gertie’s toenails could probably do with a trim, and that he should try and make sure she had selenium in her diet.

And he also found out that their reputation for being bad-tempered and nasty was a bit misleading – they could be affectionate and loyal if treated properly. Gertie, he knew, had a kind and gentle nature, but Eliot also knew that she had been very badly treated, and her level of trust was low. What he needed now was a fact on which he could hang his plan for getting her haltered and handy.

And so, with more information under his belt, he headed off to speak to Charlie Jakkamarra about Moke.

Charlie, saddling up a big, raw-boned grey mare, was on the point of riding out to look for a couple of rogue bulls hiding out in a small valley a couple of kilometres away from the homestead. He grinned at Eliot’s idea.

“You think that bloody camel will be okay sharing you with Moke?”

Eliot shrugged.

“Camels’re herd animals. She’s been on her lonesome for a while, an’ she likes company. If I can get her used to Moke, Gertie might just follow her into the paddock. If you can spare her, I’d like to borrow the ol’ gal for a little while.”

Charlie nodded, happy to oblige.

“If you think it’ll work. We don’t use the old girl much these days, so if she can pay her way and help out, then it’s worth a go, hey?”

The young aborigine studied Eliot. The man looked a lot better. He had filled out a bit and he moved more easily, although his side still bothered him. The cuts on his face had faded to healing scars, and would leave nothing but indents in the skin.

“Okay, Yank … you feel like getting on a horse?”

Eliot grinned, his face lighting up with the idea of it.

“You bet!”

So Charlie retrieved Moke from the paddock and gave Eliot a rundown on the stock saddle.

When Eliot finally swung aboard, he realised how good it felt to get back on a horse. The saddle felt odd. Deep-seated and supported by the heavy pads at the thigh, the stirrup leathers were shorter than he was used to, and he missed the saddle horn of the square-rigged double-girthed saddles of his youth.

“Now, she won’t neck-rein like your cow ponies,” Charlie explained. “Keep both your hands on the reins and lean forward if you send her into a canter or gallop – use your legs and hands to guide her.” He watched as Eliot put Moke into a trot, and noted with approval Eliot’s natural seat and balance. He was an instinctive horseman.

Eliot found Moke to be a bit lazy, but she was well-trained and responsive, and he soon learned to use his light touch to guide Moke and his weight and leg pressure to ask her to do what he wanted.

When he halted Moke beside Charlie, the younger man nodded in approval.

“You’ll do, Yank … you’ll do. Hey, maybe if you’re up to it, I could do with a hand fixing some fencing this week. I’ve got the lads busy bringing in a couple of mobs down from the north paddock, and an extra pair of hands around the homestead would be useful.”

Eliot’s blue eyes were alive with pleasure, and he smiled, long-unused laughter lines crinkled in delight. It would feel good to do some honest work and try to pay back some of the kindness that had come his way.

“You got it.” He gently pulled the reins and used his leg pressure to get Moke to walk back, and the mare did so, quietly and obediently. “Mind if I work with her for the rest of the day? Thought I might take a ride down the track an’ see what Gertie thinks of her.”

“She’s all yours, mate,” Charlie said good-humouredly. “I’ll be checking the fences in a couple of days. The ute’s needing some work and Soapy’ll be fixing her up, so it’ll be on horseback. You up for it? Let’s see if your arse is up to sitting on a nag for a day or two.”

Eliot, seated on Moke as though born in the saddle, grinned down at this young man who had accepted him so easily.

“It’ll be a pleasure.” Holding the soft rope reins in one hand, he leaned down and offered his other hand to Charlie. “Thanks, Charlie. For everythin’.”

Charlie flashed his white smile and shook the proffered hand.

“You’re okay, Eliot. For a yank,” he added.

Eliot laughed. A deep, raspy laugh that came from the hollows of his heart, and he surprised himself with the joy in it.

He was about to head down the track when Charlie called out to him.

“Hey, Yank … some of my family’re out here for a bit of a walkabout. Thought we’d meet up for a corroboree. Want to say hello?”

Eliot reined Moke in and thought about it.

“Sure. What’s a … a corr … whatsit?”

“Corroboree,” Charlie reiterated. “It’s for tribal members usually, and for my people … _Warumungu_ … it’s dancing … ceremonials, stuff like that.” He grinned. “But it can just be an informal family get-together. A bit of a natter and good eats. You’d be welcome.”

Eliot was intrigued and touched by the gesture. He felt that somehow his acceptance should be respectful and heartfelt, so he straightened in the saddle, his attitude almost formal.

“My great grandmother … she was _Aniwaya_ … Wolf Clan of the Cherokee. _Tsalagihi Ayili_ _.”_

Charlie nodded, understanding Eliot’s pride in his heritage. His reply was equally as formal.

“Well, Eliot Spencer of the _Aniwaya_ , my family will be happy to meet you.”

Eliot nodded, pleased.

“I’d be honoured,” he said quietly.

And raising a hand in an informal salute, Eliot touched Moke into a canter away from the yards and towards the almond tree stand.

* * *

Gertie, as it turned out, didn’t quite know what to make of Moke. The old brown mare, however, ignored the jittery camel, her ears lopping almost horizontally as she stood amongst the acacias, dozing fitfully, as Eliot stood beside Gertie to calm her down. It took nearly an hour, but the camel finally took the plunge and reached out to whiffle at Moke’s hide, scenting and gurgling and harrumphing to herself as she investigated the imperturbable stock horse. Moke took it all in her stride, and Gertie finally settled down to investigate Eliot’s pockets, knowing full well that he probably had treats secreted about his person. She was duly given an apple, but then she clopped her lips together in surprise as Eliot gathered up Moke’s reins and eased into the saddle.

Moke woke up and waited to find out what was going to happen next, but Gertie was a little excited by the change in her routine.

Eliot turned Moke around until she was headed into the almond stand, and then he reached out and scratched Gertie’s neck.

“C’mon, scaredy-cat. Let’s go explore.”

And touching his heels to Moke’s sides, he set off at a walk through the trees, and Gertie, dithering, finally gathered up her courage and followed, complaining but happy to be with Eliot no matter what strange creature he brought with him.

* * *

It turned out to be one of the best afternoons of Eliot’s life.

The track went on forever, or so it seemed. It ran through scrub bush and grass, and meandered along far-reaching gatherings of statuesque stringybark and gum trees, and wherever he went were the calls of galahs and lorikeets, flitting in the sun-dappled trees and yelling at each other and at Eliot, and he tasted the scent of red earth and eucalyptus in the air around him, warm and rich and alluring.

It wasn’t long until he reached the large billabong where the galahs headed every evening to slake their thirst. At this time of the year the billabong, a relic of an old closed-off river, was full of water, and he let Gertie and Moke drink as he eased out of the saddle and sat down in the shade of an enormous coolibah eucalyptus, its pale grey bark rough and warm against his back. Moke wasn’t really thirsty and she was happier being allowed to graze on the short green grass around the billabong, Gertie not far behind her, the big camel munching on anything she could wrap her lips around.

Eliot closed his eyes against the sun and allowed his mind to wander. As always, it drifted to the knowledge that he would have to leave here … leave this place of rest and understanding and kindness. But the urge to leave as soon as possible had diminished, and he felt that now he was on the mend, he could stay a little longer and try to repay Soapy and especially Jo for everything they had done for him.

He owed his life to their kindness.

The one overwhelming _caveat_ was Moreau. The inquisitive attitude of the mechanic the previous day bothered him more than he thought it would. He also noted how guarded Soapy had been around the man. Eliot determined to stay away from the garage and only visit Tennant Creek when he absolutely had to.

Money was not an issue. He had hidden accounts which he could access for cash, and even Moreau’s experts wouldn’t be able to trace them. He had put feelers out through trusted sources for retrieval work, where he wouldn’t be beholden to anyone and where Eliot would be in control of his own destiny for the first time in over a decade.

Yes, he would leave. But he had a debt to repay to the Munros, and he still needed time to get his head straight, as well as fully regain his strength. So it made sense to stay until his bike was fixed and where he could let his body and mind heal properly.

The decision made, he opened his eyes and was surprised to see a pair of brolgas flying in and settling by the shallow incline on the opposite side of the billabong. They folded their silver-grey wings and, as Eliot watched with wonder, they began to dance.

The tall cranes swooped and bowed, and then stretching their elegant wings they leaped into the air and landed, walking alongside one another and affirming their devotion in this elegant, timeless rhythm of life that had been theirs for millennia.

And Eliot watched, entranced, and the beauty of the brolgas and their dance of love wove its way into his soul, and the magic of Wapanjara sang to him, and finally … _finally_ … Eliot Spencer knew and felt the peace he had been so long denied, and it took hold in his worn and damaged heart.

* * *

Eliot rode back to the homestead and saw Soapy and Jo watching him from the veranda. Raising his hand in greeting, he decided that he would take a chance and see if Gertie would follow him to the paddock.

He relaxed and let Moke wander along, and Gertie, now happily following the old mare, slowly walked at the rear of this strange little procession. Soapy suddenly realised what Eliot was trying to do and began to pull Jo back out of sight, but Eliot raised a hand to tell them both to stay where they were.

And with no fuss at all, Gertie followed Moke and Eliot along the track, past the house and right through the open gate of the small paddock.

Soapy hurried around the house and closed the gate behind them. Gertie, for the first time in years, now had a home.

* * *

As the sun set, Eliot and Soapy leaned on the gate and watched Gertie and Moke share a small helping of feed in a trough as a reward for being so well-behaved.

“Okay, Eliot. What now? You going to get her handy?”

“That’s the plan,” Eliot replied. “Maybe … maybe if I can get her back in work she can pay her way around here. Charlie says she could back-pack stuff into the hard-to-get-to places where horses don’t find it so easy.” He took a deep breath. “ Soapy …”

Soapy could hear the hesitation in Eliot’s voice.

“Yes, son?”

Eliot gave the pastoralist a wry smile.

“Sorry.”

Soapy frowned.

“What for?”

“For bein’ such a pain in the ass. An’ now … you’ve got a camel you didn’t want. “

Soapy laughed, heartily and full of honesty.

“Don’t worry, boy – she’ll be fine, and anyway, Jo would make my life a misery if I said no. Plus …” his smile turned wistful. “Jo knows if Gertie’s here at Wapanjara, at some point you’ll come home to us.” He rested a hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “You’ll always have a home here, Eliot. _Always_.”

Eliot didn’t know what to say. So, he didn’t say anything at all. He just pulled a very surprised Soapy into a clumsy hug, gruffly slapped the wiry pastoralist on the back, and embarrassed as hell at his impromptu display of emotion Eliot stalked off to the house, rubbing his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

Soapy stared after the American, and then turned back to the paddock as Moke and Gertie finished their supper and wandered over to inspect him. Soapy felt the big camel sniff at his shirt, and he scratched Gertie’s nose, making the animal grumble softly with pleasure.

“Well, Gert old girl,” Soapy said to Gertie, who listened to this new acquaintance carefully. “That was unexpected!”

Gertie flapped her lip happily and agreed with him.

* * *

Early next morning, Eliot found Gertie and Moke dozing under the old mulga tree, the pair of them settled and relaxed together. When Eliot let out a soft whistle, Gertie got lazily to her feet, and both horse and camel ambled over to him to see if he had anything to eat and for a scratch or two.

Eliot slipped a halter on Moke and then, as though she had been doing it forever, Gertie stood quietly as Eliot gently slid the _bosal_ over her head, adjusted it for fit and then led her to the gate and tied her up. Gertie had her breakfast carrot, and waited patiently as Eliot saddled Moke.

Then Eliot led both of them through the gate, eased into Moke’s saddle, and the three of them set off to explore more of the surrounding countryside.

Soapy and Jo, sitting on the veranda finishing their morning cup of tea, watched as Eliot headed down the track, Gertie striding behind him on a long lead rope.

“How long d’you think we’ll have him, Soapy?” Jo said softly.

Soapy sighed.

”A couple of weeks, maybe. If we’re lucky … a month? He’s coming along, Jo, and he has Gertie following him around like a bloody pup. He’s healing, old girl. You’ve worked wonders with him, y’know, and he’s coming to terms with himself.”

“But he hasn’t spoken to you yet, love, has he?”

Soapy shook his head.

“Nope. But we _will_ talk, Jo. I promise.”

Jo reached over and grasped Soapy’s hand, and together they watched Eliot ride into the morning mist, Gertie close behind him and followed by the fluting cries of the magpies.

* * *

“So … who is this?”

Damien Moreau was studying photographs of a small, wiry man with the look of a bloodhound and the bow legs of a horseman.

“His name’s Munro. Ex-SASR*.” The bland-looking man with the Brooklyn accent looked down at Moreau. He had arrived in San Lorenzo that morning from Australia, and he was reporting to his boss as Moreau ate lunch, letting him know about the search for Eliot Spencer.

Moreau raised his eyebrows.

“Hmmm. Dangerous. Spencer is with this man?”

“Not confirmed yet, but a local source said he was. I found these photos of the guy at the local newspaper. Munro and his wife are active with the local section of the APPVA … “ He saw Moreau’s exasperation, “A veterans’ organisation,” he added hastily by way of explanation.

Moreau gazed at the photograph.

“Is he easy to find?”

“Munro lives out in the boonies … ‘way out in the back of beyond. It’s hard to get to.” Brooklyn sat down opposite Moreau at the restaurant table. “He’s well-regarded, so we’ll have to be discreet. We’re going to have a problem getting to Spencer on his own – this guy has a big team of cowboys or wranglers or whatever the hell they call them in Australia, and we don’t want to make it difficult for your operations out there if the cops get a smell of anything hinky.”

Morea stared at the photographs as he ate a mouthful of lobster salad.

He came to a decision.

“Find out more. Keep watch, and look for weaknesses. You know the drill. I want confirmation Spencer’s with Munro. When you find him, tell Coetzee. He knows about working in this kind of environment. Take your time and get it right, Prizzi. But don’t take too long.” He smiled wolfishly. “You understand?”

Dino Prizzi nodded.

“Yeah, Mr. Moreau. I understand. If Spencer’s with Munro, we’ll get him.”

“I’m counting on it, Prizzi. Counting on _you_.”

And Moreau, business now concluded, returned to his lobster and chablis and knew that Eliot Spencer’s days were numbered.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s note:** *SASR – Special Air Service Regiment, Australia’s fearsome special forces regiment.


	8. While The Stars Shine

Today, Eliot decided, he would get down to some work with Gertie. He needed to know what she knew and what he could teach her, and see what her limitations were. He consulted his book and checked the command words that camels were usually taught. He lifted Soapy’s walking stick from its place by the front door and gathering up Gertie’s _bosal_ , he headed off to the paddock.

Gertie and Moke were in their usual place, dozing under the old mulga tree, and as he approached the gate, Eliot let out his soft whistle.

Two pairs of ears pricked up. As Gertie and Moke ambled over to see Eliot, he went through the gate and fastened it behind him.

“Okay, girls,” he said, “no walks this morning.” He slipped the _bosal_ over Gertie’s head and fed her a carrot as a reward. “Let’s see what you can do, rubber-lips, alright?” He rubbed Gertie’s ear and the camel honked at him quietly.

Leading Gertie away from the gate with Moke in tow, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“Gertie … _koosh!”_

And he gently tapped Gertie’s front leg with the walking stick and put a little downward pressure on the lead rope.

And Gertie, sweetly and calmly, kneeled down, tucked all four legs under her and settled on the ground.

Eliot blinked with surprise, and then let out a little whoop of triumph, punching the air.

“ _YES!!”_

He rewarded Gertie with another carrot, and gave one to Moke just for being there. Then he wrapped his arms around Gertie’s neck and gave her a noogie, which made Gertie grumble with pleasure.

“Okay … okay, one for one,” Eliot said to himself, and, on a roll, rubbed his hands together and prepared for the next bit.

“Gertie … _up!!”_

Gertie sat still, and began chewing her cud. Moke investigated Eliot’s pocket for a carrot.

“Gertie … c’mon now … _up!!”_ he repeated, and gave a gentle pull upwards on the lead rope.

The camel just sat there. Eliot thought she was beginning to look a little smug.

“Aw, Gertie, just _get up_ will ya?” he wheedled, trying to get the animal to understand, which, of course, he knew she didn’t. _Now what?_

“Stand!!”

Nothing.

Okay … Gertie had once had a peg in her nose, therefore she might not even have been born in Australia, or … or … oh, _what the hell_ , Eliot thought. So … she might understand Arabic.

“ _Yafham!!”_

Gertie burped and continued chewing rhythmically.

“ _Dammit_ , Gertie!” Eliot muttered, trying not to let the irritation show. He thought again. Afghanistan. The original cameleers in Australia came with their camels from _Afghanistan_. He had to think about this one. His Persian was okay, but rusty, and his grammar wasn’t that great. He went for it.

“ _Istam!!”_

Gertie shifted and gurgled happily to herself.

Eliot growled with frustration. Moke rubbed her head on his back, just about knocking him over. He staggered and scowled at the mare, and then noticed Soapy leaning on the gate, chuckling.

“Got a problem, mate?” he asked.

Eliot frowned and scratched his head, even as Moke lipped at his arm.

“The damn book ain’t any use!” he replied. I got the ‘lie down’ command alright, but gettin’ her to stand up … “

Soapy laughed, his bloodhound face scrunched up with good humour.

“Try ‘ _hut-hut’_ ” he said.

And before Eliot could do a thing, Gertie hoisted her rear end into the air and then unfolded her front legs and stood up, tail flapping gently.

“Huh!” Eliot said, bewildered and not a little annoyed.

“You should watch _Lawrence of Arabia_ , Eliot. Plus … my grandfather used camels back in the thirties when he rode the boundary fences, and that was the phrase he used … everybody used it then. Talking of which … I’ve found something you might find handy. I’ll see you at lunch, laddie.”

Eliot nodded, a little nonplussed.

“Sure. Okay … I’ll see you then,” he muttered, and as Soapy walked off to the yards, Eliot frowned at Gertie, who flapped her bottom lip in affection, spattering slobber all over him. “Jesus, you big moron!” he yelped, trying to avoid the worst of it but failing, and he wiped spittle from his face. “Yeah, yeah, I know … I’m the dumb-ass, not you!”

Gertie licked Eliot’s hair into slobbery peaks and agreed with him.

* * *

“There you go!” Soapy said, heaving the big camel saddle onto the floor of the living room. “I forgot I had this bloody thing! It was my grandfather’s. I kept meaning to chuck it out, but it was in the attic for years and I just never got around to it. It needs a bit of work and a couple of saddle pads, but it should do.”

Eliot studied the old, wooden-framed Afghan saddle with heavy hessian padding on the two seats. He could probably cover the seats with soft leather or material and the girth and breastplate needed a bit of work, but he thought it would fit Gertie well.

“There’s no stirrups,” he said. “How –“

“You, ah, you cross your legs in front of the saddle, and use a quirt to guide her as well as use the reins on the _bosal_. You can carry stuff by slinging it over the rear seat,” Soapy explained.

Eliot raised his eyebrows, but he was willing to give it a go. Whether Gertie would be quite so willing was another matter. She was coming along beautifully, but considering her scars Eliot reckoned she might have a difficult time adjusting back into a working environment, for he was in no doubt at all that she had been a draft or pack camel, and she hadn’t had an easy time of it.

Thanking Soapy for the gift he spent the afternoon cleaning the saddle up and sanding down a few rough bits on the wooden frame and making sure there were no cracks or splinters. Then he wandered over to the store-room where the station kept its tack and found some old saddle blankets kept for backing youngsters. They were tatty, but still thick enough to act as saddle pads, and would do until he could get a couple of new, specialized pads designed specifically for camels. The girth and breastplate were webbing and still in good order but needing a couple of metal loops replacing, which was easily done.

The final touch came, surprisingly, from Effie. She had taken the job of fattening Eliot up very seriously, and with lots of nagging, scowling and the occasional gentle slap on the back of Eliot’s head if he got antsy, made sure he ate properly and regularly. Eliot, in return, made it as difficult as possible for her by complaining and pulling her chain as much as he could. They spent a lot of time annoying the crap out of one another, but the mutual affection was obvious to anyone with half an eye.

Effie, scowling at Eliot as she made him eat a delicious sandwich made with home-cured bacon and salad stuff from the garden, stumped off and returned a few minutes later with a beautiful thick red throw rug, old and worn but still sturdy.

“Here, Yank! You can’t sit on that thing without some padding – your skinny yank arse will be rubbed raw! You make sure that dirty big mangy camel don’t ruin it, y’hear me? If the thing pulls as much as a stitch out of place, I’m turning the bloody boofhead into rissoles!”

Eliot nodded at the little, round cook.

“No problem, Effie. And thanks. I’ll take care of it until I can get somethin’ more permanent.”

“You’d bloody better, you young swaggie,” Effie grumped, scowling at Eliot, who smiled back, just to irritate the cook. “And you can wipe that smile off your face, you cheeky little bludger!”

And she rolled off back to the kitchen to get Eliot a lamington, because, she decided, the short-arse looked as though he needed one.

* * *

By supper-time the saddle was, in Eliot’s opinion, fit for use. He had one more day before he was riding out to help Charlie check fences, and the young aborigine had suggested bringing Gertie along to get her used to the saddle as well as doing her bit to help Wapanjara stay viable.

He was finishing a plateful of Effie’s excellent lamb stew and wiping bread around the plate when Charlie, who ate with the Munros every evening, laid out the basic plan for their few days away from the homestead.

“Eliot … will you be okay going bush, mate?”

Eliot swallowed his mouthful of bread and thought about it. His side was still tender and had been slow to heal, and his shoulder ached every now and again. But, he decided, he could manage. The exercise would do him good, and even if he couldn’t be too much help, he could give Charlie a bit of assistance when he needed it.

“Yeah, I think so. Don’t know how much use I’ll be to ya, but I’ll do what I can.”

Charlie flashed the American a white grin.

“Hey, Yank, any help is better than nothing. You do any fencing before?”

“Oh, sure! Cattle country, remember?”

Charlie finished his cup of tea and poured himself another.

“Will that mangy camel of yours take carrying a few fence posts?”

Jo smiled to herself as she listened to the two young men, but said nothing.

Eliot shrugged.

“No idea. I gotta try her with the saddle tomorrow an’ see how she reacts to carryin’ weight again.” He looked at the three faces around him, and grinned. “I don’t even know if she’ll take to the saddle, so carryin’ stuff? It’s gonna be interesting if nothin’ else,” he added.

Effie ambled through with dessert.

“Pavlova!” she grumbled. Eliot raised his eyebrows at the meringue and passion fruit confection. Effie then placed a plate in front of him and poked him hard in his good shoulder. “Eat, you daft bastard! And,” she added with extra growl, “if you hurt yourself tomorrow with that bloody camel, I’ll slap you silly!”

As everyone began to help themselves to the rich pudding, Eliot grinned up at Effie.

“Why, darlin’, I didn’t know you cared!” he teased.

It earned him a gentle clip across the ear, and the resultant ‘Ow!’ made Effie snort with delight.

“Call me darlin’ again, you shite, and I’ll knock you arse over tea-kettle, see if I don’t!” she rumbled, and with great dignity marched back to her kitchen.

Eliot tucked into a slice of Pavlova and had to hide a smile. Effie was _so easy …_

* * *

The following morning Gertie spent twenty minutes investigating the saddle, snuffling and gurgling and muttering to herself. It probably still carried the faint smell of camel, and she was thoroughly fascinated, but she slowly lost interest and Eliot _kooshed_ her down beside the old saddle, Moke looking on with interest.

 _Well_ , thought Eliot, _it was now or never_.

Taking one of the saddle blankets, he rubbed it carefully over Gertie’s hump and neck, and then when she showed no concerns, slowly laid all three blankets in place. Then lifting the heavy saddle, he settled it onto Gertie’s back. The weight and bulk was awkward for him and his side flared with pain as he tried to be as gentle as possible, but all Gertie did was gurgle and return to chewing her cud.

Eliot let Gertie get used to the weight on her back for a while, and he used the time to pour himself a mug of tea from his flask and watch the big animal for any adverse reaction. But as he finished his hot drink he realised Gertie seemed happy enough, so he decided he would proceed.

The girth was next. Eliot slowly worked the length of webbing under Gertie’s ribcage and slid the corresponding strap through the loop and tightened it carefully. Gertie harrumphed, but flapped her lip at Eliot and whiffled his pocket. Eliot gave her a carrot as a reward, and then fitted the breastplate.

It was done. Eliot studied Gertie, who was now saddled up and apparently happy and settled. He spent a few minutes scratching and talking quietly to the big animal, and then he decided it was time for the final test.

Would Gertie object to a rider?

It didn’t occur to Eliot that a fall or any violent reaction from Gertie could hurt him badly. He trusted her, and she trusted him. So … he took another deep breath, grasped the lead rope and leaned carefully over Gertie’s back, resting his chest on the front seat of the saddle. He rubbed his hand over Gertie’s side, talking to her, and when Gertie’s ears flicked back to listen to him, he eased himself further onto the seat. And before he knew it, he was sitting astride the big beast, and Gertie shifted slightly under him, but then settled again. She burped up more cud and restarted her chewing.

“Okay,” Eliot breathed quietly, and Moke, who was a few yards away looking bored, brightened in case Eliot had a spare carrot. When one wasn’t forthcoming, she went to sleep. Eliot eased his legs forward and tucked them, one over the other, in front of the saddle and onto Gertie’s shoulders. He was ready, come hell or high water.

“Gertie … _hut-hut!”_

And was nearly toppled from the saddle as Gertie rose backside first, tipping Eliot forward, but he managed to lean back enough to stop him ending up sprawled over Gertie’s neck. And then Gertie heaved the rest of her bulky body upright, and Eliot suddenly found himself seated comfortably on Gertie’s back, seven feet in the air and with absolutely no idea what to do next.

“Oooohhh boy …” he muttered. _What now?_ “Um … alright, darlin’, let’s see if you can –“

And without being urged, Gertie strode, rhythmically and sedately, to the gate, Eliot clutching onto the wooden frame of the saddle and thoroughly unbalanced. This was nothing like riding a horse. Now he understood why the camel was nicknamed the ship of the desert.

However, right now, Gertie appeared to be expecting to go for a walk.

“Oooh, no-no-no, ain’t gonna happen –“

But Gertie seemed to be insistent, and she impatiently shifted from foot to foot. Moke had woken up and was waiting for Eliot to open the gate.

This was insane. Here he was, a rough, tough, nasty sonofabitch who could whup his weight in ninjas, and he was being manipulated by a _goddamn camel_ , Eliot thought. He pulled gently on the lead rope, but all it did was make Gertie walk around in a large circle, Moke trailing behind. Now Eliot realised why he needed proper reins and probably a guide stick or quirt.

“Woah, Gertie, okay?? Slow down, will ya??”

But Gertie headed back to the gate and stood there, waiting.

 _Dang_.

Okay. He could take a hint.

“ _Koosh!”_ he said, and prepared for Gertie to kneel first and then settle down on her haunches, which the obedient animal promptly did.

Eliot slid from the saddle and stood shakily for a moment or two, and then grinning like an idiot, fed Gertie two carrots. Gertie honked.

Leaving Gertie for a minute or two, he retrieved a spare lead rope and then cut himself a slender stick from the old mulga trunk in the paddock. He slipped Moke’s halter on and opened the gate wide. Clipping the new lead rope onto Gertie’s _bosal_ to make a set of reins and then settling himself once more on Gertie’s back, he let out an enthusiastic ‘ _hut-hut’_ , and Gertie rose to her feet, Eliot now prepared for her somewhat rocky method of standing.

So, with Moke ambling along in the rear, Eliot and Gertie padded off down the track and into the bush.

* * *

That afternoon, Eliot discovered a lot about Gertie. She was inquisitive, responsive and calm. Now that she trusted Eliot, she was happy to be guided by him with the reins and touches from his heels on her shoulders or with the long stick. She listened to his voice, and was a very paragon of obedience. He was aware of her now-healed blind eye and tried not to startle her, and as the day wore on, he became used to her rocking stride.

He discovered she could trot tirelessly, although it was a pace rather than a proper trot, with both legs on one side moving in tandem with each step. She could even gallop, although it was ungainly, and Eliot couldn’t contain the yells and whoops of pleasure as Gertie thundered through the bush, honking noisily. Eliot found the whole experience utterly exhilarating.

When he returned to the homestead that evening and after unsaddling Gertie and feeding both animals, he returned to the house in time for supper.

And throughout the whole meal, Soapy, Jo and Charlie couldn’t stop smirking at the continuous boyish grin on Eliot’s face.

* * *

By nine the next morning, Charlie and Eliot were ready to go.

Gertie was saddled and loaded with two bundles of fence posts, wire and tools, as well as Eliot and Charlie’s swag and camping gear. Eliot was astride Moke and Charlie was back on his laconic bay gelding, and saying goodbye to Jo and Soapy. Effie watched on the veranda and scowled as the two men opened the big fence gate and headed into the huge paddock, thousands of square acres in size, and consisting of nothing but bush.

“Oi, Yank!” She bawled gruffly.

Eliot halted Moke and turned in the saddle, looking at Effie.

“You hurt yourself out there, you daft young bastard, and I won’t be helping the Missus patch you up again, y’hear??” The dumpy little cook shouted.

Eliot lifted the borrowed stockman’s hat from his head and shaded his eyes in the early morning sun. He grinned.

“See? You do care!” he yelled back, and giving her an informal salute he settled the hat back on his head and touching Moke into a trot, he headed off after Charlie, Gertie swaying after them, gurgling.

“Cheeky little bugger,” Effie groused under her breath, and headed back to her kitchen, worried to bits about Eliot.

* * *

 The working day turned out to be a long one for Eliot. They worked their way along the fence, checking tension, replacing any broken posts and repairing the rabbit wire if required. Charlie stopped at midday and started a small fire under a gum tree, then set the billy on for tea.

They ate sandwiches and drank their tea in silence, and that was when Eliot discovered Gertie’s penchant for tea leaves, as the big camel lipped at the billy can until the remains of the tea tipped onto the ground. Gertie sucked up the tea leaves and tea with relish. Eliot told her she was weird. Gertie, as was her wont, licked at his hair.

After more hours of hard work, Charlie decided they should camp in a small stand of stringybark where they could hang their hammocks.

That night they ate damper cooked in the fire embers, and Charlie showed the American how his people caught yabbies by placing a tiny scrap of bacon in the middle of bunches of twigs tied around with grass, and then dangled in the shallow creek nearby. Eliot didn’t think he had ever tasted anything as good as the freshwater crayfish cooked in salted water and eaten with baked potatoes and fresh damper.

As he lay, sore but happy, in his hammock, Eliot looked up at the infinite starlit sky above him and breathed in the smell of camel and fresh air and fire embers. But it was as he drifted to sleep he thought he saw a flickering light on the top of the distant hills, gleaming momentarily in the darkness. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s notes:** Pavlova – there is a bit of a hoo-hah about where Pavlova was first created – Australia or New Zealand. Effie, of course, would staunchly maintain it was created in tribute to Anna Pavlova by Bert Sasche of the Esplanade Hotel, Perth, Western Australia in 1935. But I think you can take that with a pinch of salt.

If you're having an issue with the Aussie terms in the story, google them. They're in there. Honest.


	9. Down the Bridle Track

The following morning a mist lay on the ground, the little creek nearby trickling gently in the still air. The sun would soon burn the mist off, but as Eliot crawled out from his sleeping bag, he shivered as the coolness hit his skin.

As he levered himself out of the hammock he became aware of stiff muscles and sore joints, and he winced. It had been a long time since he had worked so hard and for so many hours, but he was glad of the soreness. It made him feel alive inside … as though by working honestly and on something positive had lifted the deadness in his soul.

Gertie sat a few feet away, cudding rhythmically, with a hobbled Moke beside her. Eliot had discovered the previous evening that Gertie didn’t like hobbles – and Eliot wasn’t going to push her on the subject, considering the deep scars she had on her legs. Besides, she would stick close to Moke and Bomber, Charlie’s gelding.

Charlie already had the billy can on the boil and mugs set out for morning tea, and a frying pan greased up for bacon and damper, a good, filling breakfast to provide energy for a hard day’s work.

The two men sat companionably around the fire and warmed their hands on mugs of hot tea with condensed milk – a new tea-drinking experience for Eliot – and ate breakfast.

As Eliot finished his bacon, he eyed the distant hills, peaking out of the mist, and waggled a questioning finger.

“Hey, man … does anyone live over on the hillside there?”

Charlie looked up from his tea and gazed at the direction in which Eliot was pointing.

“Strewth, no! Nothin’ but snakes and bloody lizards over there mate! Why do you ask?”

Eliot shrugged.

“Just askin’. Thought I saw a light over there last night is all,” he added.

Charlie frowned.

“That’s tribal land. What kind of light? A camp fire, maybe? _Could_ be someone on walkabout. Although …” he thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “I doubt it. I’d have heard from one of the elders, and besides, it’s not a safe place to camp.”

Eliot cocked his head to one side, considering the information.

“Nah. Not a camp fire. It was a bright, white light … maybe a lamp or a flashlight. It was just a couple of flashes or so, and then it was gone. But it was right on top of the hill. Any roads up there?”

“Just a couple of tracks. You could get a ute up there at a pinch from the far side, but it’d be better for a landrover or ATV.” Charlie ran fingers through his black curls. “There shouldn’t be anyone up there without permission from the tribe. I’ll ask about it. As I said … it wouldn’t be any of our people – no water, no shelter, and a whole bunch of poisonous snakes.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s a great place for a lookout spot though, huh?”

Charlie had to agree, but he was still doubtful.

“At night? What would be the point?”

Eliot finished his tea and stood up, ready to head off to the creek to wash his mug and dish.

“Yeah, I guess so. Still … someone could see our fire from there.”

Charlie hoisted himself to his feet and began to kick red dirt over the fire embers, but privately wondered what was going on in Eliot’s head. He decided that the American would tell him what was going on in his own time. He had gathered from Soapy and Jo that Eliot had a bit of a history, but he knew nothing of Moreau. But … Charlie had the patience of his people, and he could wait for Eliot to tell him if he felt able.

* * *

Within half an hour the camp site was cleared up and everything packed away on Gertie’s saddle, and they headed out along the fence line, settling down to the work ahead of them.

Eliot allowed himself to be absorbed in his labours. The fencing was methodical and he enjoyed the easy, muscle-stretching work, allowing him to let his mind be submerged in the routine of it.

When they camped for lunch, Charlie discovered a tiny hole in the jerry can in which they carried their water, so he repaired it with sap from a nearby gum tree. Eliot was intrigued. The more he stayed at Wapanjara, the more he felt whole … the more he learned, the more he rested … the more he felt as though he _belonged_.

Maybe he could … but _no_. Eliot mentally shook himself. He couldn’t stay, no matter that he wanted to. He wanted to stay more than anything. His heart yearned for peace and his soul wanted to be here forever, and find a new family with Soapy and Jo. He could have friends here … especially those who didn’t kill people for a living. He could work and eat and sleep, and be still and learn to _love_.

But he knew that to protect these people he cared for, he would have to leave, and that was that.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, they reached the corner post of the paddock. The east fence was now sturdy and fit for purpose, and that was their work done for now. Charlie opened the big gate and rode through onto _Warumungu_ land. Eliot followed, Gertie in tow, and closing the gate they headed towards the distant hills, shimmering in the heat haze of an autumn day.

Eliot studied the landscape ahead of him. It consisted of low hills which were riddled with huge boulders and a few scrub bushes, and everywhere lay the red earth, warm and redolent with heat. Looking upwards to the summit he squinted in the sun, and wondered again about the light he had seen the previous night. It niggled at him, and awoke his inner sense of something-not-right.

Charlie brought Bomber to a halt in the shade of gum trees and dismounted. He began to unsaddle the gelding until he realised Eliot was still gazing at the hills, blue eyes thoughtful in the shade cast by the brim of his hat.

“That light last night still annoying you, hey?”

Eliot nodded.

“Yeah … are we camping here for the night?” he asked.

“Too right,” Charlie said. “My old folks’ll be here in a couple of hours along with the rest of the family. Why?”

“Could I get there and back before nightfall?” Eliot continued, gesturing at the nearest hill, the one from which the light had gleamed so briefly in the dark.

Charlie took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm.

“Suppose so. Listen, Eliot …” Charlie squinted at the American, concern in his voice. “… I know you’re mostly healed up, mate, but are you sure you could take four hours more in the saddle? I mean … you’re still sore, I can tell –“

“I can take it, Charlie. I just want to set my mind at rest, okay?” Eliot saw the concern and puzzlement on Charlie’s face. “Look …I’ll tell you why when I get back. I just want to make sure it’s nothin’.”

Charlie didn’t know what on earth Eliot had to worry about that would warrant a four-hour ride in the late afternoon heat, but he made no comment.

“Alright … but take Gertie instead of the horse. She’ll cope with the heat better, and take a full canteen of water with you.” And Charlie grinned and finished unsaddling Bomber, and then turned the horse loose after slipping on a set of hobbles.

Eliot dismounted stiffly, wincing. He was tired and his side hurt, but he knew this was an opportunity he couldn’t miss to put his mind at rest. After turning Moke loose, he unloaded Gertie and let her graze for a little while. Eliot helped Charlie set up camp, trying to stop himself from stiffening up, and once Gertie had had a feed and a drink from the small billabong nearby, Eliot settled himself on her back, touched the big camel onto her feet, and set off.

* * *

Gertie took the rough landscape perfectly in her stride. Eliot let her have her head, and he just sat and constantly scanned the lie of the land ahead of him. He had brought along his sniper’s scope, and he periodically used it to plan a path to the top of the low hill. The incline was gentle, although dotted with groups of large boulders Eliot had noticed earlier. He would avoid the great, red heaps of rock. Charlie had told him they were havens for mulga snakes and taipan, both highly venomous and _very_ big, so he would take as wide a berth as possible around any rock cracks and piles of brush.

It took him over two hours to get to the low summit of the eroded hillside, with Gertie picking her way along animal tracks and over rocky flat stretches, her big, tough feet carrying her easily through the rougher patches.

When the ground levelled off, Eliot _kooshed_ Gertie down and leaving the camel to rest and chew her cud, assessed the area around him.

For a start, he could see for quite a distance. Digging out his scope from his pack, he found he could see the homestead, miles away, and although he couldn’t really identify individuals, he could see the layout of the homestead and the yards, and could even make out the large livestock trailer and tractors. Looking behind him he studied the hills stretching northward, red and soft beige and silver-grey, their outlines merging into one another and dotted with patchwork clumps of trees.

Eliot saw a dirt road leading around the sides of the hills, and he walked towards the far side of the plateau on which he stood and found the end of the road. And there, in the dust, were the tracks of a jeep.

Hunkering down, Eliot studied the distinctive tread-marks. They were crisp, the outlines firm and still well formed. His lip curled. _Fresh tracks_. Whoever had been up here had left just a few hours ago.

Sonofa _bitch_.

He stood and trotted back to the outcrop where he gauged the light might have glimmered the previous night. After hunting around for a few minutes, he found what he was looking for. Three rounded impressions in a triangle perhaps eighteen inches apart were perfectly outlined in the dust, and behind them were four small rectangular imprints. The ground around the marks was a mass of boot-prints.

Eliot spent a while trying to read the story that lay before him. Three men had driven here in a jeep several days before. He found the marks of two small tents and an area where someone had cooked food, probably on a small portable gas cooker – he found the tell-tale circular outline of the base of the gas bottle. There had been no fire, another hint that whoever had been here has wished to stay as unobtrusive as possible, and probably the reason for the flashlight.

Someone had sat on a camping chair and spied on Wapanjara through high-magnification binoculars attached to a tripod.

And, Eliot knew, the _only_ reason anyone would be watching Wapanjara would be because of _him_.

He ran fingers through his hair and thought quickly.

He had to get back to Wapanjara homestead. He had to protect Jo and Soapy and Effie, and he had to do it _now_.

Running back to Gertie he eased into the saddle, favouring his side, got Gertie to her feet, and began to head back down the incline as fast as Gertie’s raking stride could tackle the rough ground.

* * *

It was dark when Eliot rode into the camp Charlie had expertly set up in the shadow of the wind-stunted gum trees, twisted by summer willy-willies and winter blasts. The drift of the Southern Cross hung above them in jewelled splendour, and Charlie had a warm, crackling fire sending the flicker of light and red-gold glimmers through the gum trees, making sinister shapes, shifting and ever-moving in the endless night.

Eliot was welcomed by half-a-dozen children, shouting and screaming their pleasure at finding a huge, brown camel in their midst. He had a sudden rush of anxiety as they swarmed towards Gertie, but he need not have worried. Gertie, once _kooshed_ down and waiting to have her saddle removed, was the very epitome of good manners. The children patted her and hugged her and clambered onto her back, and Gertie sat and chewed her cud, eyes half-closed with the pleasure of all the attention.

Two young men came forward and helped Eliot unsaddle Gertie, and he was secretly relieved he didn’t have to lift the heavy Afghan saddle. His side was on fire. The ache and stiffness was draining what energy he had left, but he thanked the two men, who turned out to be Charlie’s older brothers, for their help.

“Hey, Yank … you okay?” Charlie said as he stood up from speaking to an extremely elderly woman who was sitting beside the fire making damper as well as tending slabs of kangaroo tail on a grate over the fire.

Eliot, tight-lipped, nodded and answered quietly.

“Yeah … I’m fine. Just a little stiff is all. We gotta talk, Charlie. Have to get back to the homestead soon as we can –“

Charlie suddenly knew Eliot was worried about Soapy and Jo. His dark eyes studied the strain on Eliot’s face.

“Are they in trouble?” he asked under his breath.

“Could be,” Eliot replied, but then he stumbled as his overstretched muscles gave out and Charlie caught him before he fell.

“Sit!” Charlie ordered, “before you pass out, mate. I know, I know – we need to get home, but we can’t do anything until daylight. Riding through this terrain at night is asking for trouble, and besides, Yank … you won’t make it until you’ve had some rest and something to eat. We can head off first thing, okay?” He saw the stress in Eliot’s face. “Okay? _You hear me??_ ”

Eliot closed his eyes and finally nodded.

“I hear you. But –“

“No buts, Eliot. You’re going nowhere, you daft bastard, unless you want to get laid up again. You’re still not a-okay, are you, so … eat something and tell me what’s going on.”

And before Eliot could object he was eased down onto a blanket beside the fire and a hot mug of tea and condensed milk was pressed into his hands and the ancient woman held out a piece of bark with some fat, yellow things laid out on the impromptu plate.

“ _Piliyi angi?_ ” she croaked.

Charlie grinned.

“Auntie wants to know how you are?”

Eliot smiled at the old aborigine.

“Tell her –“ he was about to say he was fine, but the old woman gazed at him shrewdly, black eyes alive with humour, “tell her I’m … tired,” he said wearily.

Auntie nodded.

“Eat!” she said, and proffered the bark and yellow things. Eliot took it and studied the offering. The yellow blobs were great, fat, roasted grubs. “Skinny white fella,” she added, chuckling.

Eliot raised an eyebrow and studied the toasted grubs.

“Charlie … seriously??”

“Witchetty grubs – good tucker,” Charlie grinned. “Try ‘em. It won’t kill you and they’re good for you. They taste like scrambled eggs,” he added, and reaching forward, he grabbed one and popped it in his mouth. “Good eats!”

Eliot hesitated and then, mentally cringing, he gingerly lifted one of the grubs and put it in his mouth. Biting down, he waited to be revolted. And then an amazed smile creased his face as the sweet, eggy flavour of the grub made his taste buds explode. Within a minute, he had finished the helping, and Auntie took the bark back and loaded it up with more grubs.

“Good-oh, hey?” she said, grinning.

Eliot nodded, his mouth full of delicious grubs. And later, he ate two large kangaroo tail steaks, and drank more tea. As he relaxed a little, Auntie heaved herself to her feet and carefully lifting two stones from the edge of the fire, she wrapped them tightly in an old piece of cloth and limped over to Eliot. Unceremoniously pulling up the hem of his shirt, she pressed the bundle against the tender scar of the gash in his side, the heat spreading through his skin and into his bones, and he sighed with the pleasure of it.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and winced as his side pulled at him, tiredness flowing through every atom of his being. Eliot knew he needed to sleep … to prepare for the ride of his life the next day, hoping to get back to Wapanjara homestead in time so that he could protect these people he had learned to love, despite his determination not to do so.

Charlie finished speaking to his parents and his many brothers and sisters, their children still playing and laughing, their joy warming and soothing Eliot’s worn heart. The young station manager wandered over and dropped down beside Eliot.

“Feeling better? Auntie says your insides are all clapped out. She thought for a bit that you’d had the bone pointed at you*, but nah … I told her you’d not been here long enough to have an argie with anyone, so she reckoned you were just a bit crook.”

Eliot squinted as wood smoke stung his eyes, but he smiled anyway.

“Yeah … now I’ve eaten, I’m fine.”

Charlie’s dark gaze mirrored the fire, and his voice when it came was soft with worry.

“You going to tell me what’s up, mate?”

Eliot was silent for long moments, but Charlie waited. And so Eliot sat and gazed into the glowing embers and then he told Charlie Jakkamarra of the _Warumungu_ all about Damien Moreau.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s note:** Pointing the bone – A fearsome curse that eats away at the person to whom it is directed. It is said to leave no trace, and never fails to kill its victim. The bone used in this curse is made of either human, kangaroo or emu, or even wood. The shape of the killing-bone, or _kundela_ , varies from tribe to tribe. The lengths can be from six to nine inches. They look like a long needle. At the rounded end, a piece of hair is attached through the hole, and glued into place with resin from the spinifex bush. Before it can be used, the _kundela_ is charged with a powerful psychic energy in a ritual that is kept secret from women and those who are not tribe members. To be effective, the ritual must be performed faultlessly. The bone is then given to the _kurdaitcha_ , who are the tribe's ritual killers.


	10. For the Bushmen Love Hard Riding

Eliot slept badly. Wrapped up in his hammock, buried deep in his sleeping bag, he dreamed vivid dreams of getting there too late to save the Munros. He saw Soapy die again and again and _again_ … he saw Jo … _oh god_ … and he would wake up with a yell, sweating and sore and traumatised.

And then Auntie was beside him, murmuring words he didn’t understand and patting his shoulder with her thin, wrinkled hands, and then she made him drink tea as though the sweet, hot drink could cure everything from his bad dreams to a rainy day.

As he lay there in his hammock he listened to Charlie’s family laughing and chatting through the night, the children sleeping in heaps around the fire as the adults sometimes sang songs that told ancient stories and memories of the Dreamtime. They spoke of magic snakes and the making of the moon, and the old words resonated in Eliot’s blood where the Cherokee in his soul somehow understood and helped him be a little calmer until he began to doze.

But the dreams _always_ came back.

* * *

The morning dawned dull and cool, and Eliot was already awake, bleary-eyed and exhausted. The night had drained him, his mind full of images he didn’t want to see and thoughts of terrible things that were all too familiar.

Unzipping his sleeping bag he eased himself out of the hammock and still unsteady, he stretched, winced and tried to get the stiffness and ache out of his bones.

Charlie was already up and Bomber and Gertie were saddled and ready to go, with Gertie loaded with water and food in her packs.

“Auntie’s got breakfast on the go, mate,” the young man whispered, not wanting to wake the rest of his family who slept around the fire, still tired after their few days walkabout into the bush to meet with Charlie.

Eliot slipped on his jeans and jacket and then put on his boots. He delved into his pack and brought out the old Ka-Bar knife in its sheath and surreptitiously slid it onto his belt. Now ready for whatever the day brought, he sat down beside Auntie who gave him a gap-toothed grin and handed him his tea.

Eliot inclined his head, and then smiled as Auntie gave him a bark plate with a chunk of damper slathered in butter and honey.

“Eat, skinny fella,” she said. “Here. Take this with ya. _Murrkka_. It’ll keep ya goin’.”

She handed Eliot a small package wrapped in leaves and tied with bound grass.

Eliot raised an eyebrow at Charlie.

“Honeycomb,” Charlie replied. “Wild honey. Easy to carry, and it’ll keep your energy levels up.”

Eliot looked at the neat package and then gazed into Auntie’s amused black eyes. He leaned over to Charlie.

“How do you say ‘thank you’ in your language?” he whispered.

Charlie whispered back.

“Just say ‘thank you’ – we don’t have those words,” he said.

Eliot was surprised.

“Uh … okay … I want to tell her my name. How do you say that?”

Charlie quietly said the words.

Eliot nodded.

“Jeez … um … I hope I get this right.” He leaned forward and clasped Auntie’s wizened hand with one of his own. “Thank you … and … _ajjinyi wini Eliot_ ,” and he put his other hand on his chest.

Auntie nodded solemnly and patted his hand.

“Go, Eliot. Look out for Soapy an’ Jo.”

Eliot suddenly gave a very surprised Auntie a kiss on the cheek, and then finishing his tea and damper, struggled to his feet. He was ready.

Charlie mounted Bomber and Eliot slipped the honeycomb into one of Gertie’s packs. He had a feeling he would be very grateful for the sweet energy boost by the end of the day. Sitting astride Gertie, he got her to her feet.

Charlie settled his hat on his head, checked the rifle he always carried in a sleeve on his saddle, and looked up at Eliot.

“You up for this, Yank? It’s going to be a bloody bastard of a day.”

Eliot, turning Gertie towards the big gate leading onto Wapanjara land, gritted his teeth and nodded.

“We got no way of warnin’ ‘em, Charlie. No cell phones work out here, no radio an’ there’s no other way of gettin’ in touch. I _have to_ be fit to do this – I got no choice.” His Oklahoma accent was rife with stress.

Charlie had to agree.

“One of my brothers’ll take Moke and ride her back to the community centre. He can call the cops from there. The old nag may not be very fast, but she’ll get there okay. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait for the police –“

“Nope. The people Moreau will send won’t waste any time. They’ll come overland, and it’ll take the police too long to get here. Anyway …” Eliot added bitterly as he tapped Gertie into a mile-eating trot, “I know how Moreau’s bastards work ‘cause I used to be one of ‘em.”

And before Charlie could reply, Eliot was off ahead of him and the young aborigine had to push Bomber into a lope to try to catch up, and the land gleamed orange-red as the sun slowly made its way over the horizon.

* * *

Charlie was right. It was turning out to be a bloody bastard of a day.

It had taken the two men two days to get to the north-east corner of the fence, but they had been working slowly all the while. Charlie thought that they could reach the homestead by late afternoon if they managed to keep up the mile-eating pace that Gertie set. Luckily Bomber was fit and being the good stock-horse he was, he easily kept up with the big camel.

But Eliot was another matter. The ride was _punishing_. Gertie was tireless, taking the rough terrain easily, but Eliot understood then why Charlie had stopped him from travelling at night. During their fencing work Eliot had been too focused on his task to notice the toughness of the landscape, but now he was feeling every bump and rise in the land. Gertie dealt with spinifex and spiny acacia, rough grass tussocks and termite mounds. She easily spanned shifting, sandy soil and rough, warm rock. And Eliot felt it all, his already-strained side sending jolts of agony through him at every jarring stride.

Charlie made sure they had periods of walking, and every hour or so he made Eliot _koosh_ Gertie down, dismount and take a break. He ensured Eliot drank plenty of water and ate the food Auntie had packed for them, and all the while both men kept the fear they had for the Munros under wraps.

On their third stop, Eliot brought out the honeycomb. Opening the leaf package, he broke the succulent, oozing lump in half, giving one portion to Charlie, and then he slid down beside Gertie and leaning back against her he sucked the rich, golden treat out of the comb, the waxy block allowing Eliot to savour every drop. Re-wrapping the comb, he rested his head against Gertie’s side and closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his aching muscles and the increasing pain in his side to subside a little.

“How’s it going, Yank? You doing alright, mate?”

Eliot sensed Charlie slouch down beside him.

“Yeah … I’ll be fine,” Eliot grunted. He knew he wasn’t. But he had to keep going … he just _had to_.

And heaving himself painfully onto his feet, he settled into Gertie’s saddle, got her to her feet and touching the camel into a fast trot, Eliot headed determinedly towards the homestead.

Charlie got to his feet, looked at the Eliot and Gertie heading into the distance, sighed and mounting Bomber, followed in their wake.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Eliot and Charlie finally got to within two kilometres of the homestead, and it was now that Eliot eased Gertie to a halt and _kooshed_ her.

He held Bomber’s reins as Charlie dismounted and Eliot tied the tired gelding to Gertie’s saddle.

“Charlie, I need to know how we get to the billabong from here. I want to see what’s goin’ on before we head in. Do a recon … “

Charlie cocked his head to one side and studied the American.

“You’re a veteran … just like Soapy,” he said quietly.

Eliot frowned.

“Soapy’s ex-forces?”

“Yeah … SASR, I think they’re called. Desert Storm, Timor … places like that. Did a lot of covert stuff, I think. He doesn’t talk about it much.”

Eliot was stunned. He knew about Australia’s tough-as-nails Special Air Services Regiment. Hell, he’d even worked with a couple of these mad, highly-skilled Aussies in Pakistan. Why hadn’t Soapy mentioned it? And then he mentally answered his own question. Eliot didn’t speak of his own time in black ops for many reasons. One was the extreme secrecy of the work he did, but mostly it was because of the memories that riddled his dreams. That was bad enough – talking about it was just … _too much_.

But knowing Soapy had skills much like his own made him a little less anxious – it was obvious Soapy could handle himself, and Jo wasn’t helpless.

“The rest of the crew are up in the north pasture,” Charlie continued, “and they won’t be back until the day after tomorrow with a mob of fatstock. So Soapy, Jo and Effie are on their own.”

Eliot grimaced.

“Okay … Moreau’s men might be days away or they might be here already, so we gotta screen the area. I want to come in through the almond trees where I know the lie of the land and I can use my scope to try and figure out what’s goin’ on. Charlie …”

“I’m an aborigine, Eliot. I know what I’m doing and I can track better than you can breathe.” The young man’s face was set with determination. “Don’t even try and stop me, mate. I can help.”

Eliot studied Charlie and saw the steel in the man’s eyes. _Damn_. Charlie’s skills _would_ be useful. Eliot was a good tracker, but he knew Charlie would leave him standing.

“Dammit, man –“ Exasperation filled Eliot’s retort, but Charlie ignored him.

“Listen, Yank … you’re far from a hundred percent and you’re hurting, so stop being a wazzock and let me help. We’ll see what we can see before nightfall, and if Moreau’s bastards are already here, I can go and have a dekko after dark.”

“Charlie, I can’t let you get hurt because of me – “ Eliot was determined that Charlie should not put himself in danger, but it was obvious that he wasn’t winning this particular battle.

“Hey, Eliot,” Charlie suddenly gave his friend a look of sinister intent. “Don’t tell Auntie, but … after nightfall the Kurdaitcha Man will walk,” he said.

And Eliot, remembering the tales he had heard on that magical night under the stars, when the Dreamtime touched his world and the ancient words sang to the wolf in him, smiled grimly like the supreme predator he was.

* * *

Leaving Bomber and Gertie tethered beside the billabong, Eliot and Charlie waited for sunset. The noise of the flocks of galahs and lorikeets coming in to drink would help deaden any sound they made, and the long shadows and creeping blue gloom of the encroaching darkness would blanket the earth, making it difficult to make out shapes and movement.

Charlie was barefoot. Eliot followed, his booted feet placed in Charlie’s tracks, leaving only the imprint of one person. Charlie had every intention of dealing with the tracks later if needed.

As they worked their way through the almond stand, the sun finally disappeared below the horizon, the world slowly becoming shadow and echoes of light. Eliot and Charlie paused beside the track, unseen and silent.

“Nothin’ out front,” Eliot whispered. “But that doesn’t mean a thing. Although …” he checked his watch, “I’d expect Jo to be on the veranda by now with tea an’ her book.”

“Nah, she started that only since you came,” Charlie replied quietly. “When you were so sick after you arrived, she sat out there with you for nearly two days, mate. She thought you were gonna die on her. But you didn’t.” His teeth flashed white in the gloom for a second or two. “You’re a tough bugger, hey?”

“Wouldn’t have made it without her,” Eliot murmured. He shook his head, unhappy with the silence. “It’s too damn quiet. You can usually hear Effie before you see her. Somethin’s not right.”

Eliot saw Charlie nod in agreement.

“Yeah … and the veranda lights are off.” Charlie tapped Eliot on the arm. “Stay here. I’ll work my way around the back and see if I can find out what’s going on.”

“But –“ Eliot interjected, but Charlie stopped him from saying any more.

“No buts, you daft bastard. Stay put. Can’t have you crashing about in your bloody great boots, can we? Anyway, take a breather. You’ve had a rough day, and you’ll just hold me up. I’ll be back in a mo’” he finished, and before Eliot could growl an objection, Charlie was gone.

* * *

Eliot sat on the stump in the almond stand for nearly an hour, shaded by the trees from the great moon above, and fretted.

The homestead was silent and the blinds were down over the windows. He knew now that something was seriously wrong. There was no movement. No shadows of bodies passing the blinds … no laughter, no clatter of dishes from the kitchen … _nothing_.

 _Dear god_ … what if these people he loved so dearly were already dead??

His heart constricted with equal measures of terror and fury. If whoever Moreau had sent had harmed one hair on any of their heads –

“Eliot!” Charlie hissed in Eliot’s right ear.

Eliot nearly fell off the stump in surprise.

“ _Jeez_ , Charlie –“

 _Nobody_ snuck up on Eliot Spencer … but Charlie Jakkamarra had managed it easily, and Eliot, once his heartbeat had slowed down, had to admire the young man’s skills.

Charlie crouched down before him. He had a dead chicken and a plastic bag dangling from one hand.

“So …” Eliot whispered, eyeing the chicken, “ … how many? And are Soapy an’ Jo an’ Effie okay??”

Charlie scowled.

“Eight that I can see. Five blokes in the house, one out in the barn and two outside – one in the paddock and the last one out by the yards. Two of ‘em are aborigines. Not my people – they sound like they’re from Queensland someplace.” He took a deep breath. “Soapy and Jo are alive. Some big foreign bugger has them in the living room, by the dining table away from the veranda windows. They’re tied up, but they look alright. Soapy’s got a cut on his cheek, but he seems okay.”

“What about Effie?” Eliot ground out, worried about the little cook.

“Didn’t see her, I have to say. But one of the bludgers in the house is in the kitchen, as far as I can tell. But there’d be no point in killing her … well, not just yet, anyway. She’s another life to bargain with.”

Eliot thought about the setup and then considered the man in charge.

“Describe the leader,” he said grimly.

“Tall, broad … looks about forty, short hair … kinda military … tanned, with a moustache and goatee. Handles himself like a bushman. Confident. Doesn’t seem to say much, and when he does he goes straight to the point.” Charlie frowned, remembering something. “He’s got a scar down his face.”

Eliot’s blood ran cold.

“Left side, down through his eye to the jawbone??”

Charlie nodded.

“When he spoke … could you recognise the accent?” Eliot asked, his voice deadly now.

“Yeah, I think so. He sounded South African. You know him?”

Eliot’s eyes closed for a moment. It was worse than he had feared.

“Yeah …” he grated. “I know him. Mason Coetzee. Worst piece of shit I ever met. He’s here to kill me – and for him, it’s personal.”

“How do you know?” Charlie asked breathlessly.

Eliot gave him a grin, but there was no joy in it.

“Because I was the one who gave him that scar and took his eye,” he said.

 

To be continued …


	11. Mid the Great Grey Forests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a grim chapter. There are mentions of child slavery and abduction and all of the dreadful things that implies. There is also a racist comment, so be warned.
> 
> Also, there is some gore to do with one of Effie's chickens, dead for the benefit of the story.
> 
> The Sierra Leone incident is hinted at in 'Military Precision'.

* * *

Eliot followed Charlie back into the stand of trees and onward to the billabong where Gertie and Bomber waited patiently. Eliot eased himself down beside Gertie and leaned back, allowing his aching body to relax, and he watched Charlie as the aborigine turned himself from an amiable young station manager into something entirely different … a man of his tribe, a warrior and part of forty thousand years of his people’s heritage.

Sitting down at the side of the billabong, Charlie took the head off the still-warm chicken and drained the blood into the plastic bag. Then he plucked the feathers off the carcass, and hollowing out a depression in the earth he dumped the feathers into it, and then stripped down to his shorts.

Eliot was intrigued to see the cicatrices on Charlie’s chest and abdomen, but was surprised even more when Charlie dipped each foot into the bag of blood and then sank first one foot and then the other into the pile of feathers.

Charlie was speaking quietly to himself in words Eliot didn’t understand, and as the blood dried, the feathers became a soft, fixed coating, the outline of which, Eliot realised, would make tracking Charlie well-nigh impossible.

But he also understood that Charlie was making a point – he was going to focus on the two Aboriginal trackers Coetzee had hired.

Charlie flashed Eliot a soft smile, and then pointed at Gertie.

“You still got that honeycomb in your pack?”

“Sure do,” Eliot replied, and reaching around, lifted it from his pack and tossed it to Charlie.

Lifting his discarded pants and rummaging in a pocket, Charlie brought out a wisp of black human hair and a discarded plug of chewing tobacco. He warmed the beeswax* in his hands and separated the lump into two. He pushed the hair into one and the plug of tobacco into the other, smoothed each lump into a smooth ball, and then he grinned at Eliot.

“This’ll freak those two drongos out,” he chuckled. “They’ll think they’ve been boned, which they haven’t, of course. I wouldn’t … _couldn’t_ … do something as drastic as that, and the elders would have my guts for garters if I even thought about it. But … a little a con won’t hurt, hey?”

Eliot raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. This was all beyond his understanding, but he did know that boning was used as a deadly threat and punishment by tribes throughout Australia, and he understood the seriousness of what Charlie was implying.

Charlie’s last chore was mixing water with some clay from the billabong bank and smearing his body, limbs and face with broad, irregular stripes, breaking his outline in the moonlight and turning his slender frame into an ethereal and ghostly creature of the otherworld.

As Charlie stood, Eliot felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Here was the Kurdaitcha Man, and this night he walked an ancient land, and he would bring retribution to those who would harm the people he loved.

* * *

The wind was rising from the north.

Eliot tucked himself into the shelter of Gertie’s large, solid bulk in the dark, and wrapped himself tightly in his jacket. Then he reached up and dragged Effie’s red throw rug off the saddle and wrapped it around his frame. The temperature was dropping, and there was no fire to warm him, so he did his best to draw heat from Gertie and ease the pain in his side. The ride had almost crippled him. But Eliot knew he had to conserve his strength for what was to come, so he was determined to rest as well as he could.

The clear, moonlit sky had dissolved into cloud, and dust was beginning to rise and swirl in the darkness. Eliot turned his face towards Gertie, and the big camel, sensing his discomfort, laid her head on the ground alongside him, curving her neck until it lay snug against his aching side and her big head nudged against his leg.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and lifted the warm rug until it lay across them both. He scratched her head and Gertie hummed to herself, as she would have done to her calf if she had ever had one. “Dopey critter,” Eliot added with a smile.

But even as Gertie’s comforting bulk warmed him up, Eliot’s thoughts were with the Munros.

He knew that once Coetzee had used Soapy and Jo to entice Eliot in, the man would kill them. That was Coetzee’s way. He never left witnesses, and he would kill Effie too, and if he got hold of Charlie the young man was dead meat.

He thought back to the moment when his knife had sliced open the big South African’s face all those years ago, before Eliot had left the army and found himself in a world he no longer understood.

Mason Coetzee was a war criminal. With a background in the shady National Intelligence Agency during the closing days of apartheid, Coetzee had disappeared when it was obvious his brutality towards prisoners and detainees would see him prosecuted and imprisoned. So, ever the opportunist, he had turned his considerable lethal skills to living the lucrative life of a mercenary.

He had run into Eliot Spencer in Sierra Leone.

While on a covert mission to rescue over thirty young girls abducted over a year previously for a local warlord, Eliot had come face-to-face with Mason Coetzee. The man was running a lucrative business abducting girls and selling them to the highest bidder as slaves, forcing them into prostitution and worse, and Eliot and his team of specialists had been hell-bent on returning the girls to their families.

Eliot Spencer and Mason Coetzee faced each other in the bloody, battle-scarred courtyard of the ancient fortress Coetzee was using as a headquarters. The South African had cornered Eliot as the young soldier gently carried a terrified, heavily-pregnant 14-year-old girl out of danger and towards the safety of the back-up team heading their way to mop up stragglers.

Coetzee was a knife man. While an excellent shot and skilled hand-to-hand fighter, he loved the thrill of killing with a knife, and he saw Spencer as an easy target. Although over ten years younger than Coetzee, Eliot was a full sixty pounds lighter and six inches shorter than the big mercenary.

Ten minutes later Coetzee was lying screaming on the floor with a bone-deep cut from his hairline to his jaw, his eye ruined, and Eliot turned away, the blood from the knife wounds in his arm and shoulder soaking his camouflage jacket. He didn’t have time to finish Coetzee off – the girl needed him, and he was the only one who could help her, so he lifted her in his arms and carried her to safety.

And as he held the girl and tried his best to comfort her as she buried her face in his chest, babbling her thanks in a language he barely understood, Eliot had heard Coetzee’s voice, reamed with agony, yelling that Eliot Spencer was a dead man. For he, Mason Coetzee, would not rest until he had gutted Eliot and held his innards up for him to see.

Eliot shivered as the wind bit through Effie’s rug, although he wasn’t really cold. The memories came thick and fast, and the horror had not lessened, even after the passing of so many years.

He remembered the hopeless trust on the young girl’s face as she lay beside a bush two days later, her dark eyes fixed on his face and her hand in his, as she vainly tried to give birth to the child Coetzee had forced on her, and Eliot had watched helplessly as she screamed and bled and died even as the child slid from her, still and silent, the army medic who was helping the girl shaking her head in sorrow. The girl’s body had been too immature and too undernourished to cope with the trauma of childbirth.

Eliot had buried the girl and her beautiful little boy by himself, refusing any help. He laid both of them tenderly in their final resting place beside a copse of trees, the setting sun gilding with golden light both the grave and the stricken face of the soldier who had done his best to save them.

Gertie gurgled to herself and rubbed her head against Eliot’s side as though to comfort him, and her soft, velvety muzzle mumbled at his fingers. He reached into his pack, pulled out an apple and gave it to her, and Gertie ate it quietly. Then tucking her head back against Eliot, she nuzzled at him, worried.

Eliot wondered how Charlie was getting on. If he could somehow freak out the two aboriginal trackers it might reduce the number of Coetzee’s men to five. Not an insurmountable number, Eliot decided, but if they were Moreau’s men then they would be tough, experienced and ruthless.

Soapy and Jo would probably have told Coetzee that Eliot wouldn’t return for at least another day, probably two, so he thought he might have a day and a night to prepare some sort of plan to free them before Coetzee got fed up and began hurting them. Eliot also needed confirmation that Effie was in the house and unhurt.

So unable to do anything else until Charlie returned, Eliot settled down to think about his options.

* * *

Joey Burrimukka of the _Kuku Yalangi_ didn’t like it here in the grasslands of Wapanjara. He was a man of the rainforest, the land of water and creeks and rich damp forests teeming with life.

He and his brother Murray were here under sufferance – that big bastard from Africa didn’t like him and didn’t like Murray, but he understood the need for their skills, despite his dislike of Joey’s race. Coetzee was a bigot – but Joey could deal with that, because he and Murray were getting big bucks for this little job of tracking a Yank through this grassy landscape. So, he decided, he could cope with being called a ‘stupid kaffir bastard’ and to hell with the man.

He pulled out his plug of tobacco and teasing off a small twist he pushed it between his gums and his cheek. Joe didn’t like the dry, dusty air here, which limited his keen vision and would make his job difficult, but that would be tomorrow’s chore.

Sitting down on a box in front of the barn, he rested his back against the corrugated tin wall and watched the silhouettes of the gum trees bend in the wind. The heady rustle of the branches and the scent of eucalyptus began to lull him into a light doze, but a sudden feeling tickled the back of his mind.

_He was being watched._

For some reason Joey didn’t want to look at the acacias beside the yards. He stared at his booted feet, and then picked at his fingernails. The pull of the shadows in the acacias became stronger. Joey spat a gob of tobacco-rich saliva on the dusty ground and then tugged his coat around him and buttoned it.

_Oh, to hell with it._

He looked straight at the acacias.

He shrieked as he fell sideways off the box, landing squarely on his rump in the dust.

_No … no-no-no –_

“Kurdaitcha!” he whispered to himself in terror. “ _Go away!!_ ” he yelled, scrambling backwards and away from the ghostly figure standing pointing at him from the shadows. The creature, the executioner of his tribe, then threw something at Joey and in the blink of an eye, the thing was gone.

As Joey let out a scream of panic, the six-feet-long Mulga Snake slithered angrily over his legs and curled into a pile of muscled, powerful rings. Joey managed to get to his feet before the thing could strike, and ran yelling into the trees.

Ten minutes later, Murray Burrimukka ran headlong into a ditch, hysterical and terrified and yelling, away from the phantom thing from the Dreamtime which had come to tell him he was a dead man.

* * *

Joey and Murray clung to each other through the night until dawn arrived, dusty and arid and windy. When full daylight came they helped each other to their feet, shaky and nervous, and went to their swag to roll up their kit.

And there, on each bedroll, was a small, perfect ball of beeswax. They both knew what the balls contained. They held a piece of themselves, something of their soul. It was then they knew they were doomed.

* * *

As the dawn rose, Charlie wandered back to the billabong, his dusty body almost grey and indistinguishable in the light. The wind was strong and blustery, and he was tired and thirsty.

He began to wash off the dried blood and feathers, the means he used to obliterate tracks, and then he cleansed the clay from his body. After he was clean he dressed himself and dug out some dried kangaroo meat from his pack.

Eliot was asleep. He lay stretched out beside Gertie, the big camel’s head and neck around Eliot’s side and legs as though protecting him from the ills of the world.

Charlie smiled. He would let Eliot get what rest he could, and then he would tell him Effie was alive, tied up in the kitchen and very, _very_ angry.

He knew Eliot would have some sort of plan figured out. But there was nothing they could do right now, in daylight, so Charlie finished his food, leaned against a tree trunk and went to sleep.

 

To be continued …

 

* * *

 **Author’s note:** Boning is a serious threat, so this is my own take on the process without being disrespectful. Normally Charlie would have worn ‘kurdaitcha shoes’ as they are known in the west, but this way of creating the same effect wasn’t uncommon in the early part of the 20 th century. So, for the purposes of this story, Charlie has gone about it the same way and so I sacrificed a literary chicken to enable him to do so.

* The ball in which Charlie hides the personal items would normally have been spinifex resin or gum, but for the purposes of this story – as well as this not being a _real_ boning – he’s using beeswax.


	12. And Clouds of Dust

Eliot woke two hours later to a dull, windy day, the ripples on the billabong surface sending tiny foamy waves against the waterline and making the trees creak and wave. The mesmeric sound of the rush of leaves and the piping calls of the lorikeets made him lie still for a few minutes, warm and protected by Gertie’s bulk. He knew he would be stiff and sore when he arose, but right now he was feeling no pain. The only thing that made him move finally was the overwhelming aroma of camel.

Gertie grumbled as Eliot struggled to sit up, shifting her head to let Eliot ease himself out of the protective barrier of her muscular neck. He clapped her affectionately on the shoulder, and grasped hold of the saddle in order to get to his feet.

Giving Gertie a scratch, Eliot stiffly stretched and winced at the pull on his aching side. Then he rummaged in his pack and pulled out his sniper scope. He saw Charlie sprawled out on the ground, sound asleep, and Bomber, still hobbled, stood over the young man, dozing.

Eliot smiled to himself and decided to let Charlie catch up on his sleep, but just as he turned and began to head towards the almond stand, a quiet voice, rife with amusement, crept out from the hat Charlie had placed over his face to protect him from the dust.

“If you need me, Yank, come get me, alright?”

Eliot grinned.

“No worries, mate!” he answered in a fair-to-middling imitation of Charlie’s soft accent.

“Keep workin’ on it, man … keep workin’ on it,” Charlie answered dozily, Eliot’s Oklahoma lilt coming easily to the young aborigine.

As Eliot disappeared into the trees, he felt better knowing Charlie was with him every inch of the way.

* * *

Eliot spent the rest of the morning scouting out the homestead. When he arrived at the almond stand he dropped to the ground and army-crawled painfully to the base of the stump on which he had spent so many days resting and reading and working with Gertie.

He knew the stump was visible from the veranda, but he kept to the right side of the stump which gave Eliot at least partial cover. He had removed his denim jacket and plaid shirt, and then dusted his teeshirt with red soil and he ran dusty fingers through his hair and over his exposed skin.

When he finally settled down to study the house through the scope he saw Soapy and Jo cautiously walk out of the house and sit down at the bamboo table on the veranda. Soapy had a badly bruised eye and a deep cut over his cheekbone but otherwise he looked angry but well enough. Jo glanced over at the stand of trees, anxiety rife on her face, but then she looked away.

Then Effie appeared, stumping furiously through the door with tea and cake on a tray, and slammed it down on the table, spilling a little milk in the jug onto the tray.

Jo looked up at the little cook and rested a cautionary hand on Effie’s pudgy wrist, trying to calm the irate woman.

A shadow moved in the gloom beyond the doorway.

Eliot’s blue eyes glinted with anger.

They were being used as bait. To catch _him_. Oh god, what had he done?? He wiped a hand over his face and pulled himself together. He had a plan to work out, and right now, he had to figure out how to get these three people he loved out of harm’s way, and then deal with Coetzee and his thugs.

Looking once more through his scope, he scanned the surrounding area, but could see no-one else. He checked the roof. _Ah-hah_! There was the faintest hint of movement near the apex of the roof, just behind the old brick chimney that came from the kitchen. _That was two_.

He spent another hour patiently waiting for any developments, but other than Soapy working on his accounts and Jo tensely doing a crossword after Effie brought them lunch, he saw no other members of Coetzee’s team, let alone the man himself.

Working his way backwards, he reached the shelter of the trees and getting to his feet he moved silently around the tree stand and circuited Jo’s fenced garden to the paddock beyond where normally Gertie and Moke spent their time.

 _There_ was goon number three. A man in an incongruous lightweight business suit stood uncomfortably in the shade of the old mulga tree. Eliot smirked. Here was a man well out of his comfort zone. He looked soft, city-fied and very hot, if the mopping of his brow with a large handkerchief was anything to go by.

But Eliot passed him by for the time being. He needed to mark out the rest of the invaders and find Coetzee. Circling the paddock using Jo’s much-loved riot of floribunda rose bushes and the rich red of the flowering bottlebrush shrubs as cover, he managed to slowly work his way to the kitchen window, several feet above him and always open to let the heat out. It was guarded by a grey-green eucalyptus, and he melded into the dappled shadow and listened.

It was then he could hear Effie’s voice muttering through the fly-screen.

“Bloody bastards, you are!” she said under her breath, clattering dishes and slamming what Eliot could only think was an iron frying pan down on the big old cooking range.

“Shut up, you old cow!” came a voice, a rich cockney accent nurtured within the sound of London’s Bow Bells. “Just get on with it, will you? We’re hungry!”

“I hope you choke on it, you pommie arse,” Effie answered bitterly, and Eliot couldn’t help smiling at the woman’s defiance. But the smile instantly turned to fury as he heard a sudden slap and Effie’s muffled cry of pain.

Eliot went pale with anger. That sonofabitch had _hit Effie_.

“ _Genoeg! Jy kan haar later doodmaak!_ ”

Eliot’s lip curled with hatred.

 _Coetzee_. And if Eliot’s sketchy Afrikaans was even reasonably accurate, the South African had said they were going to kill Effie. Not right at this moment, but _soon_.

He heard Effie swear under her breath. At least she wasn’t too hurt, so despite his anger, he felt as though he could continue his reconnoitre, and account for the rest of Coetzee’s team.

Backing carefully away from the window, he spent nearly an hour making his way to the yards and barns, keeping out of the eyeline of the man on the roof, needing to find the two aborigines and one other man. He found the latter in the barn, head stuck under the hood of one of two big black SUVs tucked out of view from the outside. The big African was whistling to himself, tinkering away at the oil filter, so Eliot left him to it.

That was _six_.

The aborigines were nowhere to be seen. Eliot found the place where they had stowed their swag a short distance from the barn, and the remnants of their tracks leading away from the yards. He grinned. The two men were _running_. Charlie had obviously frightened the crap out of them. Coetzee had left them to keep watch on the outer perimeter of the homestead, and had not bothered checking on them. _His mistake_ , Eliot thought. Coetzee was _too_ confident. So ... two down and six to go.

Eliot backtracked and then sat under an acacia to think about his next move. Like any apex hunter, he would work around the perimeter of his prey group and pick off the weakest, and, he realised, he had just the right man in mind.

* * *

“Charlie!” Eliot’s voice roused the stockman from his sleep.

“Wha –“ Charlie sat up, wide awake, his hat falling off his face into the dust.

“You have to get going,” Eliot hissed urgently.

Charlie found Eliot crouched beside him, the American’s face lined with strain.

“Go where?” he asked.

“How long will it take you to catch up with the crew in the north paddock?”

Charlie instantly understood Eliot’s line of thought.

“Half a day, maybe? Another half day to get back here if they’re where I think they are with the mob.” He grinned at Eliot, alight with enthusiasm. “We could bring ‘em in pretty fast!” he added.

“We have to time it right,” Eliot said. “I have to get Soapy, Jo an’ Effie out of the house.” He hesitated and then taking a deep breath, continued. “As soon as Coetzee sees me comin’ in he’ll kill ‘em, preferably where I can see him do it. That’s the way he works.”

Charlie nodded and stood up, reaching for Bomber’s halter.

“Midday tomorrow,” he said. “How’s that?”

Eliot calculated timings and went through his plan in his head.

“Works for me. Don’t wait for any signals. Just come in as fast as you can. I’ll work around you.”

Within fifteen minutes Charlie had Bomber saddled and ready to go. Mounting the little bay, he kneed the gelding to stand beside Eliot and he looked down at the American.

“You be careful, Eliot. You’re not up to par, so be wily, mate. Be the shadow at the corner of their eye that’s gone when they look for it.”

Eliot’s face was grim.

“Don’t worry about me … I got a bit of a plan, an’ if it goes right I can get Soapy, Jo an’ Effie outta there without them gettin’ hurt. Coetzee can wait until I’m ready. Ride safe, brother,” he said softly, and reached up to shake Charlie’s hand.

“Will do, Eliot Spencer of the _Aniwaya_.” Charlie sat straight in the saddle. “Be careful, _brother_ ,” he said finally, and touching his heels to Bomber’s sides, he headed off into the bush at a mile-eating lope.

* * *

Dino Prizzi _hated_ Australia.

He hated the heat, and he hated the dust. He hated the humidity and he hated the sunshine. He hated the food, the plants, the animals … _everything_. Every single damn’ creature out here in the ass-end of the world bit, stung or ate whatever came within reach, and that included the prickly, anti-social bushes and that nasty, _nasty_ old woman who did the cooking. She was short, rude and vicious, and Dino was sure she would poison them if she had a chance.

He dug around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, and discovered he didn’t have any. That was the last goddamn straw. He had had enough of standing out here in this shitty dirt-hole under a tree that seemed to spend its time dropping woody bits of crap on his Armani suit. On _purpose_ , he was sure.

 _God_ , he missed Brooklyn.

Growling to himself, he marched towards the gate, cursing as he stepped in a pile of shit that obviously came from something _very_ big, and unfastened the bolt. Swinging the gate open he decided he was going to give friggin’ Mason Coetzee a talking-to and then he was going to get himself a bottle of whatever foul alcoholic drink these Australian nutcases imbibed and find a quiet corner and –

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

_Oh, what now??_

He turned, ready to tear whoever it was a new ass-hole, and came face-to-face with a wild man. A dusty figure topped by a dirty face with a pair of icy blue eyes grinned at him.

“Hi there!” Eliot said. “I’m Eliot Spencer.”

And Dino Prizzi hit the ground like a bag of bricks as Eliot’s right hook to his jaw sent him spiralling into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _God_ , he had one _hell_ of a headache. Dino Prizzi realised he was lying flat on his back on the ground, and the sun was making his eyes feel like boiled eggs. He moved his right arm, trying to swing it over his eyes in an attempt to shade them and dull the pain in his head, but he couldn’t move. _Huh_. He tried his left arm, but that didn’t work either. His hands were bound, and, he discovered, so were his ankles. He was spread-eagled on the ground. Oh _shit_.

Opening his eyes and squinting, Dino turned his head and did his best to avoid the brightness. Hell, his head _hurt_. He thought he could hear someone eating.

A blurry figure resolved slowly as Dino gasped with pain, and he tried to make sense of what was happening to him.

“You awake?” came a voice, raspy with disdain.

“Um …” Dino croaked.

“Guess you are.”

Dino’s back and arms felt strange, and rolling his shoulder slightly he felt dust shift under him. He wasn’t wearing his jacket and shirt, and his torso and arms were bare. He had a sudden panicky feeling, worrying that his pants and underwear were also missing and he was out here in the bush buck-naked, but to his relief he could feel the material on his legs and rump.

The figure slowly sharpened and came into focus, and he saw the wild man who had floored him hunkered down beside him eating honey from a rough honeycomb.

Eliot was wearing Dino’s shoulder holster, and the butt of the Sig Sauer sat comfortably under his arm.

“What –“

“What am I doing to you?” Eliot interrupted, and sucked honey from his right thumb.

“Uh … yeah …” Dino mumbled. His mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage and his head was on the point of exploding, he was sure.

Eliot licked the last of the honey from his lips, swallowed and then grinned wolfishly.

“Oh, that’s easy. I’m gonna make you tell me all about Mason Coetzee and what his plans are.”

Dino Prizzi, a man not unfamiliar with threats, snorted.

“Go to hell,” he snarled.

“Thought you’d say that,” Eliot said, and dug out another small comb of wild honey from his pack beside him. Dino glanced past him at the huge camel standing under a tree, glaring at the sprawled New Yorker. It didn’t look happy.

“What are –“

“What am I going to do to you? Is that what you want to know?” Eliot asked amiably. And reaching down to his belt, he unsheathed the old Ka-Bar knife and waggled it at Dino.

“ _Jesus_ …” Dino gasped under his breath.

Eliot looked puzzled for a moment, and then his face cleared.

“Oh … no-no-no, I’m not going to cut you, man. Hell _no_ ,” he added. “I got other plans for you.”

Leaning forward, Eliot studied the ground in front of him for a moment, and then used the knife blade to gently lift something from the dust.

“Here … look …” and shoving the knife towards Dino’s face – which made the man flinch – and Dino saw something move on the blade.

“What’s that?” he asked feebly.

Eliot chuckled.

“This? This is an ant,” he said, amused. “A bull ant, to be precise,” he continued.

Dino tried to focus on the black insect on the blade. It looked agitated.

“The bull ant,” Eliot explained, “is the largest ant in the world. It’s also one of the most aggressive. You understand?”

Dino nodded, a feeling of dread beginning to settle in his heart.

Eliot lifted the knife away from Dino and studied it, watching the creature run around the blade, antennae waving with anger.

“It stings too,” Eliot said. “In fact, the bull ant is one of the most venomous ants in creation. It’s been known to kill humans, an’ I’m told its sting is about two hundred times more painful than a bee sting. An’ unlike bees … this little fella can just keep stinging and stinging and _stinging_ …”

Now Dino was beginning to shake.

Eliot pursed his lips. Holding the blade over Dino’s chest he suddenly flicked the angry ant onto the bare skin.

As if on demand, the big ant stung Dino Prizzi near the sensitive skin of his left nipple.

The pain was _excruciating_. And then the thing stung him again as Dino yelped with the shock of it, and struggled to be free of his bonds. All this did was irritate the annoyed ant even further, and it stung Dino twice more.

Eliot watched curiously, and then gently flicked the creature off Dino’s chest. The sting sites were red and swelling at an alarming rate, and Dino’s breathing was hitching with agony. His chest felt as though acid had been streaked across the tender skin.

“Scream, if you like,” Eliot said. “I got you miles away from the house, so no-one can hear you.”

Dino could hardly breathe, and his skin quivered with the shock of the assault from the ant. How something less than two inches long could inflict such torture Dino couldn’t understand, but he was beginning to hyperventilate.

Eliot studied the honeycomb in his hand. He had managed to purloin the combs from the sugarbag bee nest in the almond stand for his plan, and now he showed it to Dino.

“Honey,” he said as though explaining something to a small child. “This is sugarbag and it’s very sweet. Bull ants _love_ sweetness.”

Flipping the knife in his hand and holding it by the blade, he pushed the grip against Dino’s head until the man was facing his left, even as the pain in his chest wracked his body.

“See that little mound?” Eliot asked.

There was a small pile of earth beside Dino’s head, less than a foot away. It was covered in leaves and other bits and pieces, and it was about twenty inches high with a small hole low on one side.

“Y … yeah …” Dino ground out. He could barely speak.

“That,” Eliot pondered, “is an ant nest. A bull ant nest. A nest that size can hold … what … maybe under a thousand. Not many, I guess. But they are really … _really_ … touchy. Man, all you got do is poke the bastards with a stick and the whole bunch of ‘em will attack. They don’t care how big you are. An’ _boy_ , will they go for this honey.” Eliot squeezed the honeycomb and drizzled honey over Dino’s face.

Dino choked with fear and whimpered.

Eliot thought for a moment and then placed the handle of the knife at the entrance to the nest ready to rouse the deadly beasts within.

“So …” he said quietly with more than a hint of menace in his voice. “I suggest you begin to talk.”

And Dino screamed and screamed and screamed, and between screams he told the wild man everything he could about Mason Coetzee’s plan to kill Eliot Spencer.

 

To be continued …


	13. When it Comes to an Uphill Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: There is a racial slur and some violence towards women, so be warned.

* * *

Mason Coetzee was a patient man. But his temper wasn’t the best, and when he discovered the two aboriginal trackers had disappeared, he pushed Soapy into a chair and slammed a rock down on the table.

“What the hell is going on, you old _dwankie!_ What’s this mean??”

The big man gesticulated at something on the rock.

Soapy glanced at the markings and then looked at Jo, sitting at the other side of the table, rubbing the raw marks on her wrists from the rope used to tie her into her chair.

“It’s … it’s a message,” he said cautiously, turning his gaze back to Coetzee.

Coetzee slapped Soapy alongside the head and the pastoralist winced, but didn’t make a sound. He heard Jo mutter ‘bastard!’ under her breath, and he tried to control his smile.

“So??? What is it?” Coetzee growled.

“Um … where did you find it?” Soapy asked quietly.

“On the seat of one of the SUVs,” the big African said, scratching the stubble on his jaw.

“Nasty,” Soapy said. “Your trackers didn’t like it here. So …” he shrugged “… they left.”

He gestured at the symbols etched on the rock. The markings consisted of a series of circles within one another with several lines radiating outwards, like the sun’s rays.

“It means … this is an evil place and you should leave,” Soapy explained.

He noted Jo’s eyes widen for a second, but then she relaxed back in her chair and nodded.

“Yeah … sounds like a good idea,” she said, derision in every syllable. “ _Leave_.”

Coetzee smiled like a hyena on the hunt.

“Oh, I’ll be leaving all right, you skinny little _goffel_ , when I have Eliot Spencer lying gutted in front of you, hey? How does that sound?”

Jo’s lip curled.

“Not going to happen,” she said, and smiled. “Eliot’s bloody hard to kill, you pointless deadhead.”

Ignoring her, Coetzee gestured at the stone.

“So … this is nothing more than a couple of dumb blacks shitting themselves, right?”

Soapy’s eyes became flinty at the insult, but he held his tongue. Eliot and Charlie were still out there, and he knew that the two Aboriginal trackers hadn’t placed the stone on the SUV seat – either Charlie or Eliot had done so. The old aboriginal message stone had been on the property for decades, and indicated to anyone on walkabout that a meeting place was nearby. But it was worth the lie when he saw the sudden look of nervousness on the face of the young cockney thug who had hauled Effie into the room and made her stand in the corner.

“Hey … just saying, mate. Aborigines’re sensitive to these things, and they’re just letting you know this place has a curse on it. Old ceremonial land, I believe.” Soapy shrugged.

The cockney glared at Coetzee.

“Cursed? You brought us to the armpit of nowhere to a place with a curse on it? Great!” he added, his whole body tense.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Goldie, shut up! Keep your stupid superstition to yourself, you arse,” Coetzee snarled.

Henry Golding was part of a long line of pearly families in London, and his mother had been very superstitious – well, until Goldie had beaten her to death with a rolling pin for telling her son he was stupid and a disgrace to his family. That little, foul-mouthed cook reminded him of his mother, who he hated.

Soapy kept silent, but his heart leaped in his chest. Eliot and Charlie were close by, and knew they were in danger. He looked at Jo and smiled, and his wife, understanding, twitched a smile of her own. For now, they were both certain, they were at war, and their boys were coming to save them.

* * *

As darkness settled, Eliot waited in his place beside the stump in the almond stand. He had spent a few hours relaxing and eating the last of the food Auntie had provided, allowing his body to rest and recuperate a little. He had left Dino Prizzi tied to a stringybark a couple of miles from the homestead, the huge red welts from the ant stings running rampant across his chest and the man sobbing and hurting and far, far from any help.

Now, though, Eliot had plans to put in place. As the gloom encroached on the homestead, he saw the lights go on in the house. He saw movement behind the shades and he heard noise in the kitchen. Effie was beginning to cook supper.

He knew from Prizzi that Coetzee was waiting for Eliot to return from the few days in the bush, and that he had been told that the crew probably wouldn’t be back for a few days yet as they mustered fatstock in the great north paddock.

It was as he had guessed – Coetzee was using Soapy, Jo and Effie as bait. The South African had searched Eliot’s room and found the passports, confirming the American’s presence. Soapy and Jo had refused to co-operate, and Coetzee had plans to kill them after he had tortured, blinded and then slowly ended Eliot’s life in front of them. The big mercenary understood how much they cared for the young man, and he despised them for it. But then, Eliot had always had a chink in his armour when it came to innocents.

Finally getting to his feet, Eliot worked his way around the house and headed for the barn and the yards. He had to wait near Gertie’s paddock for ten minutes as the man on the roof worked his way down and onto the flat corrugated iron surface of the kitchen extension and then down the eucalyptus to the ground.

Eliot froze as a voice suddenly rang out.

“Prizzi!! Hey Prizzi! You comin’ in?” the man yelled.

Eliot paused for a second and then cleared his throat.

“M’doin’ good!” he yelled back hoarsely. “Got a bottle!”

“Damn, man, don’t drink it all at once!”

“Screw you!” Eliot yelled back, desperately hoping his Brooklyn accent was up to par and that he managed at least a hint of Prizzi’s deep voice. He just prayed that the idea Prizzi was drinking accounted for any change.

He heard a raucous chuckle, and then the man headed into the kitchen and shut the door behind him and the tension eased, Eliot letting out a huff of relief.

He slowly continued on his way to the station office alongside the barn, and was grateful for the moonless, dusty night, the wind still gusting and the dust particles making Eliot’s eyes gritty.

The office door was locked, but it didn’t take Eliot more than thirty seconds to pick it with the help of a piece of plain high-tensile wire he found in the adjacent store.

As soon as he was inside and had silently closed the door behind him, he hunted around for a flashlight. Finding one in the drawer of Soapy’s desk, he searched for the veterinary box. It was a tall metal cupboard and refrigerated unit double-locked for safety. Once he had picked the padlocks, he used the flashlight to check the rows of bottles and packs in the chilled container.

Eliot soon found what he wanted. Slipping a small, sealed bottle into his jeans pocket, he dug out a pack of syringes and needles. Then he checked the surgical supplies and found a box of sterile packaged scalpels suitable for dealing with the tough hide of cattle. Pocketing a handful, he shut the door and relocked the padlocks.

He noticed the secure gun cabinet in Soapy’s office, and thought about using one for a moment or two, but decided against taking any of the rifles. They were cumbersome and would get in the way, so he emptied any ammunition he could find into a burlap bag and took it with him as he left the office, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him.

There was no sign of the tall, bulky black man he had seen in the barn fiddling with one of the SUVs, so Eliot deduced that Coetzee relaxed his surveillance at night, just keeping watch in the house. After all, Eliot reasoned, Coetzee didn’t believe that his prey would be returning for another day or so.

Easing his way past the barn he melted into the shadows and the wind-strewn bush, and heading back to the relative safety of the almond stand, he found a sheltered spot, brought out his finds and set to work by the subdued light of the flashlight.

* * *

When dawn came, Eliot was as ready as he would ever be. The landscape was still submerged in the blue hour, when all was faded and indistinct, made even hazier by the dusty wind still blowing lazily over the bush and through the trees beside the homestead.

Eliot eased himself through the veranda door, silent as a wolf on the prowl, and found Jo’s newspaper and book in the cupboard beside the table. It took him a mere two minutes to ready everything, and then he was gone … a shadow in the gloom, nothing more than a ghost.

* * *

Working his way to the eucalyptus below the kitchen, Eliot heard Effie slide open the window before she began making breakfast. She clattered about, making as much noise as she could – probably just to irritate the hell out of Coetzee and his men – and then she began to curse under her breath.

Eliot smiled at the grumpy old cook, listening as the cockney began snapping at Effie telling her to shut the hell up, and Effie gave as good as she got.

“Oh, shut your trap,” she muttered, “or I’ll shut it for ya, just you wait!”

“Just bloody well cook, you old bitch!” Goldie growled. “I’m hungry. Steak, okay? _I want steak!”_

“I’ll give you sodding steak …” Effie murmured under her breath, and as the grill slowly heated she surreptitiously added a generous sprinkle of the hottest chilli powder she could find in her cupboard and prepared to grill Goldie’s steak to well-done. Then she whisked some of her home-produced eggs and added herbs and cheese for a tasty omelette. Separating out a serving for Goldie, she sneaked in a hefty dollop of the powdered ipecac she kept as an emetic for the cattle dogs in case they ate something they shouldn’t.

She knew she couldn’t dose everyone’s food because the result, although unpleasant, wouldn’t incapacitate them and she didn’t want Jo and Soapy to bear the brunt of Coetzee’s ire. But Goldie? The little shit was fair game.

She didn’t look up as Finkelstein, the lean sniper who spent his time keeping watch on the roof, wandered through the kitchen and snaffled a couple of Effie’s lamingtons from a box on the kitchen table. Effie, incensed at the thievery, deftly threw a heavy metal ladle at him and she was delighted when it bounced off the man’s shoulder, making him let out a pained yelp.

“ _You –“_ he snarled, and he lashed out, catching Effie on the side of the face. She cried out, but even with a bleeding lip, she grinned nastily.

“Touch my lamingtons, will ya, you little mongrel?” she growled, swallowing blood.

“Hey, Finkelstein, leave her be, you twerp! She’s cooking breakfast!” Goldie complained, and Effie straightened and turned back to her omelettes as Finkelstein threw the ladle back at her – and missed – while rubbing his shoulder.

“Stupid old –“

Effie didn’t hear the rest of it as Finkelstein went out of the kitchen door, slamming it shut behind him. She grinned.

* * *

Finkelstein hefted his rifle as he took it out of its case in the kitchen wash-house, and stepped outside into the blustery day. He was getting very, _very_ fed-up of sitting on that goddam roof, in the heat and the sun and now the friggin’ dust, waiting for this Eliot Spencer fella, whoever the hell he was, just so that Coetzee could split him from stem to stern and spill his innards on the ground.

Oh well, he sighed. At least Coetzee’s employer was generous with the payment he would receive in full once Spencer was dead. He tucked his six-pack of bottled water into a fork in the eucalyptus and slinging the strap of the M24 rifle over his head and arm, he prepared to climb the tree, grumbling to himself. He wished he had a ladder.

He never managed to take that first step.

Something powerful … an arm, he realised … snaked around his throat and pulled him backwards, unbalancing him, and he couldn’t cry out because the arm was cutting off his air supply. As he wheezed and gasped and tried vainly to drag air into his starved lungs he felt his head being yanked sideways and something very, very sharp indeed was jammed into his neck. He began to panic as he felt the cold, oily liquid flow from the syringe through the big needle, designed for cattle and horses, and even as the hysteria took a firmer hold his muscles began to weaken and sag. Before he knew it he was on the ground. Finkelstein could breathe now as the pressure was loosened around his neck, but he found he couldn’t move.

As he lay there, his vision blurry and disjointed, a feeling he knew well from his youth and a carefully-managed supply of LSD, a face swam into focus.

Blue eyes studied him for a moment, and then the face disappeared and he felt a hand grab hold of the back of his jacket and he was being dragged rapidly through undergrowth and into what seemed to be a camouflaged hide.

And then, as whatever-it-was ran though his veins, he passed out.

* * *

Jo opened the door from the house and stepped out onto the veranda, Soapy behind her, and surveyed the burgeoning day. She was tired and her wrists hurt, and she looked at Soapy’s poor, bruised face and her heart was breaking. She could hear Effie trading insults with that creepy little Londoner who spent his time in the kitchen keeping an eye on her, and her heart, weary though it was, lifted a little.

The stocky, muscular man Coetzee ordered to watch them, a German called Dietrich, followed them outside for a moment to see that they settled down without any complaint. Then he sat just inside the doorway, shadowed but still able to keep an eye on his charges.

Jo studied Soapy’s bruised face.

“Are you okay, love?” she murmured, he voice soft and worried.

“Don’t worry about me, old girl,” he replied, reaching out and grasping her hand. “I’ve had worse, you know that.”

Jo nodded and squeezed her husband’s work-calloused fingers.

“Yes, dear … I know.”

And then she noticed her book and newspaper. She frowned, puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Soapy whispered.

Jo shook her head slightly, and Soapy understood something wasn’t quite right. He saw Jo look at the cupboard beside the table, and then he remembered that Jo always put her reading material and newspaper crosswords in the drawer before retiring for the night. But here they were, sitting on the table, a pen resting on top of the newspaper.

Jo flicked a look at him, and then she slowly lifted the pen and leaned forward as though studying a clue on the crossword.

As she looked at the puzzle, the words jumped out at her.

1 across – LIFT.

5 across – BOOK.

Jo glanced at the book, open and lying face down. She thought that the pages weren’t lying quite flush with the table. She went back to the crossword puzzle.

8 across – CAREFUL.

12 across – SEDATIVE.

Jo looked at Soapy, and then glanced up at Effie as the cook arrived with tea and cups on a tray, the milk jug full to the brim. She winced at the new cut on Effie’s face.

“Thanks, Effie. Tea would be lovely. Watch you don’t spill the milk –“

And Effie did just that. She jarred the jug as she set the tray down and Soapy ‘tsk’d with presumed annoyance. As Effie grumbled and Soapy helped clear up the mess, Jo quickly lifted the book and stuffed the two loaded syringes she found underneath into the pocket of her warm jacket, the sheathed needles catching for a second before she managed to ease the material over them.

She quickly went back to her crossword, and this time she checked the ‘down’ clues.

19 down – UNDER.

25 down – PAPER.

Then …

31 across – DIVERSION

35 across – SOON-WAIT

Sliding her hand under the newspaper she swiftly lifted the three wrapped scalpels and slipped them into her jacket sleeve. She gave Effie a quick but meaningful look and then poured tea.

“I’ll take care of this,” she said. “You can take back the tray when we’ve finished. Perhaps you could check the teapot – I think it’s leaking.”

“Bloody thing,” Effie said, “you can’t seem to buy a decent teapot these days,” she sighed. “Anyway,” she continued, “got to get on with breakfast. Steak and a cheesy omelette. Not that those buggers deserve it.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Soapy said quietly.

And looking at these two people she loved dearly, Effie nodded and stumped off to her kitchen, for she had a cockney to poison.

* * *

Eliot quickly tied up the unconscious Finkelstein and hoped the muscle relaxant and sedative he had injected into the man’s neck would keep him out of it for quite a while.

Soapy and Jo would probably have found the drugs and scalpels he had left for them by now, and he trusted Soapy to be able to deal with their guard. In the meantime, Eliot had to create a diversion.

He looked at his watch. He had to rely on Charlie and the crew arriving at midday, so he had four hours or so to go. In the meantime he would have to deal with the tall African, set off the diversion and then get Soapy, Jo and Effie out of the house. He just hoped that the cockney and the German could be dealt with by Soapy, but if not, Eliot would have to deal with any problems quickly and efficiently.

Only then would he be able to deal with Coetzee. And, Eliot knew, at that point it would be a case of kill or be killed.

 

To be continued …


	14. For Vengeance on the Show

Jacques Nkunda loved fiddling with mechanical problems, and when he found the old Ducati motorcycle under a tarpaulin in the barn he grinned to himself. Peeling an orange he had taken from the trees in Jo’s little orchard, the Rwandan sat at a workbench and began to tinker with the dented wheel of the machine, and ignored Dietrich’s yell from the house to come in for breakfast.

He had ridden a bike back in Rwanda, in the days when he was with the _Akazu_ * as he did his best to rid his country of Tutsi trash during the genocide of 1994. His murderous skills had translated well to life as one of Moreau’s many employees, and he was happy with his lot. Good pay, good conditions, as long as he did as he was told and without question, and he could otherwise do what he wanted with no constraint. He knew of Eliot Spencer’s betrayal. He didn’t understand the man. _At all_. Why give up on such a good thing?

“ _Merde!_ ” he muttered as he tried to loosen a screw in the rim and the screwdriver slipped, nicking his thumb. He sucked the little bead of blood that appeared, and then tried again and felt the surge of triumph as the screw shifted slightly. He ate a section of orange, spitting out the pips onto the floor.

He was about to return to his task when he hesitated and cocked his head to one side. His amiable, handsome face broke into a smile.

“You must be Eliot Spencer,” he said, his voice deep and mellow, a voice many women found charming and likeable.

“That’d be me,” Eliot answered softly, standing quietly behind Nkunda. He knew he would have no chance of creeping up on this man. The barn was a myriad of echoes and even the slightest sound could be picked up by anyone trained to listen for that indefinable _something_ that hinted at a presence. If he was going to deal with the tall African then he would have to do it face to face, and he couldn’t tackle Coetzee unless Nkunda was out of the equation. Defeating Coetzee would need all of Eliot’s considerable skills, and he couldn’t do it and also have to watch his back.

Nkunda straightened on the old chair, put down the screwdriver and turned to look at the American.

“Is this your bike?” he asked, gesturing at the Ducati.

“Yep. It’s mine.” Eliot’s voice was expressionless.

Nkunda raised an eyebrow in appreciation.

“Nice. I like a Harley myself, but a Ducati … they make pretty good machines,” he smiled sweetly. “Maybe after you’re dead I’ll fix it up and see how it goes.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Eliot replied, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “But I’m not figurin’ to be dead any time soon.”

Nkunda studied the dusty, dirty figure in front of him, standing balanced and ready in the light gleaming through a small chink in the corrugated iron roof, dust motes dancing in the breeze coming in through the big door.

So … this was the famous Eliot Spencer.

Nkunda thought he didn’t look like much of a threat, but as he assessed the stocky, powerful frame and the steady blue eyes, he knew Eliot was more than he appeared to be. He wasn’t a big man. He also looked tired and, Nkunda thought, a little underweight and sore. He knew his colleagues had badly wounded Spencer, cutting him along the side … a deep cut, one that would have laid him up for weeks. He saw the gaunt hollows of the man’s belly and the hint of ribs showing under the dusty teeshirt, the relic of a long, slow recovery. But, he decided, it just made Eliot Spencer seem hungry … like a starved wolf. And that made him even more dangerous.

“Well … at least _I’m_ not going to kill you,” Nkunda said, his lilting voice friendly and kind. “That’s for Coetzee to do.” His face had a slight hint of reproach. “You made quite a mess of his eye, _mon ami_.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t sell and rape children then, huh,” Eliot said. He shifted to one side, giving himself more room to manoeuvre.

“Hey, that’s just business, man,” Nkunda shrugged, and then he stood up.

Eliot almost took a step back, but stopped himself in time. Now wasn’t the moment to look shaken. He had only seen Nkunda sitting or bending down, and although he knew the man was tall, he didn’t know the African was close to six-feet-eight.

 _Jesus_.

He ran through his options quickly. He still wore Prizzi’s shoulder holster carrying the Sig Sauer, but the noise of a shot would alert Coetzee and endanger Soapy, Jo and Effie. Besides, Eliot had other plans for the weapon, and he only had one clip of suitable ammunition. Slipping the automatic out of the holster with his thumb and forefinger, palm out, he laid the weapon on a worktable. His Ka-Bar knife, while sturdy, would mean having to get close enough to use it and bring him within Nkunda’s long reach.

Glancing around, he saw a big trolley jack with a removable handle. That would have to do.

Quickly striding towards the jack, he grasped the heavy handle and lifted it free of the main body of the jack. Swiftly gauging its weight, he twirled it and brought it to bear like a medieval staff, balancing it in both hands. Moving to the free space in the centre of the barn, he settled into a fighting stance.

Nkunda sighed.

“Seriously??”

Eliot gave him a feral grin.

“Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

Nkunda wasted no time. He took the fight to Eliot.

The huge man’s swing was powerful and skilled, and it was only the massive difference in height that enabled Eliot to duck below the swing and rap Nkunda’s ribs hard with the handle, but before he could step backwards Nkunda’s left fist hit Eliot’s side with a blow that drove the breath out of him and sent blinding agony through every nerve.

Eliot realised that Nkunda knew where he had been cut and was targeting the healing injury.

Sonofa _bitch_.

Wheezing, Eliot staggered backwards, narrowly avoiding Nkunda’s long, powerful arms.

“You won’t win, _kazungu_ ** … I can tell you’re hurt, my friend.” Nkunda sounded almost apologetic.

Eliot steadied himself and tried hard not to favour his injured side. He winked good-humouredly.

“Bring it on, you dumb ass-hole,” he grinned.

“Suit yourself,” Nkunda replied, and it only took him three strides to close in on Eliot.

Tucking his elbow against his injured side, Eliot swung the handle behind him and darted away, light on his feet and superbly balanced. He twirled the handle around his back to his left hand and before Nkunda could change direction Eliot smashed the sturdy length of metal against the big African’s back, and from the guttural groan coming from the man, Eliot knew he had broken a couple of ribs.

But Nkunda didn’t break stride as he turned like a cobra and faced Eliot, reaching out to grasp the handle. It was only by the skin of his teeth that Eliot managed to stumble back out of the way, but Nkunda followed him relentlessly.

Eliot suddenly dropped to the ground and swinging his legs to one side, he slammed the handle as hard as he could against the back of Nkunda’s knees.

But even as he yelped and hit the ground with a heavy thud, Nkunda reached out and grasped Eliot by the arm. The vicious blow he landed on the American’s shoulder with his free fist numbed every nerve in Eliot’s arm and hand and he lost his grip on the handle.

Nkunda sensed victory.

Eliot, gathering every ounce of his waning strength, twisted desperately to one side and used his own body weight to pry Nkunda’s long, powerful fingers from his shoulder. But his cry of agony didn’t stop him rolling over until he was on his knees.

Nkunda scrabbled around again, trying to get a grip on Eliot, already realising the man wasn’t as incapacitated as he had expected. Reaching out, he tried to use the advantage of his long arms to gather Eliot into a crushing, unbreakable bear hug.

But attempting to catch hold of Eliot was like trying to imprison quicksilver.

The smaller man landed a solid blow on Nkunda’s nose and the African bawled in agony, and Eliot, seizing the day, desperately scrambled over Nkunda’s writhing body. Draping himself in a wrestler’s hold around the broad shoulders and yanking back the man’s head, he snaked a powerful arm around the African’s throat.

Nkunda, in pain and furious, tried his best to buck off the muscular body wrapping strong legs around his ribcage and hanging on like a limpet. Eliot was now well-nigh impossible to dislodge, and Nkunda realised that Spencer was reaching down to pull something out of his boot.

With a mighty burst of energy, Nkunda heaved himself onto his knees, Eliot still hanging on and slowly cutting off Nkunda’s air supply with the crushing arm around his throat.

But Nkunda kept going. He bared his teeth with the effort and he crawled on his hands and knees across the barn floor, even as Eliot arched his back and piled on the pressure.

Reaching up to the place where he had been working on the wheel and scrabbling around on the dusty surface, Nkunda’s fingers wrapped around the screwdriver.

Eliot, still doing his utmost to choke the breath out of Nkunda, found what he was looking for. Sliding the filled syringe out of his boot, he desperately pulled the cover off with his teeth, spat it out and jammed the needle into the African’s neck and slammed down the plunger.

But even as he felt the hard sting of the needle and the cold flow of the drug, Nkunda reached around and stabbed the short screwdriver into Eliot’s leg above the knee.

Eliot gave a keening groan of agony, his body convulsing with pain, but he held on even as his wounded leg lessened its grip. All he had to do was wait until the drug took effect, but pain made darkness begin to impinge on his consciousness and his breathing, already ragged with effort, began to stutter. But he hung on, every muscle straining, and he managed to hook his damaged leg back around Nkunda’s ribcage.

It felt as though time was slowing down. Eliot felt his rough, haggard breathing rasp in his chest and he coughed even as Nkunda’s struggles slowly … oh, _so_ slowly … began to lessen and then, after what seemed like hours, the tension in the man’s muscles became non-existent. Nkunda was out like a light.

Eliot, only semi-conscious and in excruciating pain, allowed himself to relax and roll sideways off Nkunda’s unconscious body and onto the barn floor, spread-eagled on his back and feeling the blood soak his pants leg.

 _Damn_ , he thought.

* * *

Effie was cooking up a storm. Goldie sat at the big table in the kitchen and watched her hungrily. The little woman was a nasty piece of work, he decided, but by god, she was a great cook. Goldie’s mother had been a rotten cook, and the little cockney appreciated well-prepared decent food.

The smell of the omelette was driving him nuts.

Effie dug out a plate as she laid Goldie’s steak on the grill, and she gently folded the cooking omelette in half so that the sharp, rich grated cheddar melted inside. The scent of the herbs filled the kitchen and made Goldie’s stomach growl.

Warming the plate in the oven for a minute, Effie then slid the golden omelette, gleaming with cheese and bell pepper slices, onto the plate and set it in front of Goldie.

The little cockney lifted his knife and fork and cutting a piece of the omelette, shovelled it into his mouth. He hummed happily to himself. It was _delicious_.

Effie smiled and turned back to cooking the rest of the breakfasts.

* * *

Eliot managed to lever himself to his feet, and had to lean on the worktable beside him for a moment. Taking deep breaths, he did his best to control the pain in his leg. But he couldn’t hang around feeling sorry for himself. He had work to do, and holding onto bits of equipment and furniture he hopped forward and opened the door to the station office.

Within minutes he had dug out the big medical kit and carefully sat down in Soapy’s chair.

Eliot looked at the screwdriver embedded in his leg. He didn’t have time to dress the wound properly, so he pulled out a pressure bandage and some topical antiseptic, and using scissors he slit his pants leg around the wound. Jeez, this was gonna _hurt_.

He took more steadying breaths. Then grasping the screwdriver, Eliot pulled it out of the muscle of his leg. He ground out a gasping, keening groan, but he pressed the thick bandage over the now freely-bleeding hole in his leg and kept up the pressure. He rocked gently in the chair, eyes squeezed shut, and waited for the pain to lessen a little and for the bleeding to stop.

“Okay … okay, I gotta move …” he ground out, and checked the bleeding. It had slowed to a trickle but not stopped. He unfolded another pressure bandage and replacing the now blood-sodden packing, he tied the bandage as tightly as he dared over the wound. Then he rummaged about in the office and dug out a roll of duct tape. Within a minute he had wrapped the tape around his leg, wound and pants, holding the bandage in place. It would have to do.

Eliot stood up and tested his leg, putting weight on it. The pain was bad, but he could bear it.

Limping back to the unconscious Nkunda, he managed to use wire flex to tie the man’s hands and feet and rolling him onto his chest, Eliot hoisted Nkunda’s feet up and tied them to the flex around his wrists. He finished the job by putting duct tape over the African’s mouth. If he vomited and choked to death then it was just Nkunda’s bad luck, Eliot decided.

Lifting the Sig Sauer and slipping it back into the shoulder holster, Eliot painfully limped out of the barn and headed towards the boundary of the homestead.

* * *

Soapy checked his watch as Effie brought through breakfast and placed steaks and omelettes onto the veranda table. Effie checked the contents of the teapot.

“Hmmm … see you’ve drunk the lot,” she said, studying the interior. “Want some more?”

Jo smiled at Effie.

“Oh, yes please!” she answered. “We’re a bit dry today, for some reason.”

“Yes, well …” Effie grumbled, glancing at Soapy who was studiously tucking into his steak. “I’ll feed those two bastards in the living room and then I’ll bring you more tea,” she muttered.

Soapy swallowed a mouthful of Effie’s superb steak and nodded his thanks.

Satisfied, Effie stumped off to the kitchen, teapot in hand.

* * *

Eliot made his way around the cattle yards, keeping to the shadows as much as he could. The wind did its bit, drifting dust over his tracks and the blood-drops hitting the ground with slow but steady drips.

Finally, he reached the fence that circled the homestead and retrieved the burlap sack that held the rifle ammunition from where he had stuffed it under an acacia bush. Lifting the sack and heaving it over his shoulder, Eliot limped slowly back to the fence line to a patch of open ground he had scoped out earlier when he watched from the almond stand.

Turning and squinting through the dusty haze of the day, he could just see the edge of the veranda about fifty yards away. _Man, this was going to be a tough one_. Eliot slid the sack off his shoulder and very gently tipped the contents onto the ground. Around fifty .3006 rounds lay in a pile. Breaking off a stick from a gum tree, he stuck it in the ground until about eighteen inches rose from the centre of the mound of cartridges.

Eliot sighed. It was the best he could do. Arranging the burlap sack on the stick so that it flapped gently in the breeze, he melted back into the undergrowth and headed towards the homestead.

* * *

Effie prepared the steak and eggs for Dietrich and Coetzee, both of whom were seated in the living room. The German sat in his chair and kept an eye on Soapy and Jo, but Coetzee was busy playing solitaire on the coffee table, bored with the wait. But Eliot Spencer would come, he knew, and it was only a matter of time.

As Effie served the food to the two interlopers, to her great delight she heard a loud, uncomfortable burp coming from the kitchen.

* * *

Eliot was struggling to keep upright. But, he knew, he had to keep going. He had a job to do, and his people were relying on him. He put his hand on the duct tape around his leg, and it came away bloody. But he couldn’t concern himself about it right now, and he couldn’t afford to pass out, so he shook his head to chase away the dizziness.

He was nearly at the veranda now, and crouching down, he worked his way around to the rear of the veranda and eased himself under the wooden frame. It took him nearly ten minutes to crawl through the gap until he was lying just underneath Jo’s chair. He could hear his two friends eating their breakfast, and he reached up and stuck a finger through the slats of the decking.

Jo felt something touch her slippered foot. Then she felt three short, sharp taps. Reaching forward, she grasped Soapy’s hand and squeezed. The pastoralist saw the hope shine in Jo’s eyes, and he nodded. He was ready.

* * *

Effie returned to the kitchen and looked at Goldie, who was looking a little green about the gills, but she lifted his steak off the grill and set it on his plate. Goldie fought down the mild nausea he was feeling and studied the steak. It certainly looked delicious.

As he began to cut himself a portion, Effie turned her back to him and lifting the teapot lid, slipped out the filled syringe hidden inside and slid it into the pocket of her apron.

* * *

Eliot’s vision was beginning to blur a little, so he rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and squinted. Sliding the Sig Sauer from its holster, he peered blearily through the veranda framing. He could _just_ see the burlap sack fluttering in the distance, looking for all the world like a rag caught on a fence. Resting the barrel on the framing, he braced the weapon and aimed about eighteen inches below the sack. The dusty wind made it difficult to see clearly, but at least he could adjust for wind direction with the help of the sack, and he braced the automatic with his other hand. Taking a deep, deep breath, he let his heartbeat slow as he exhaled carefully, and when the moment came, he gently squeezed the trigger and fired.

 

To be continued …

* * *

**Author’s notes:**

* _Akazu_ \- an informal organization of Hutu extremists whose members contributed strongly to the 1994 Rwandan Genocide.

** _Kazungu_ – ‘small white person’, a derogatory term in _Kinyarwanda,_ a dialect of Rwanda-bundi.


	15. And Any Slip Was Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Here there be violence and a couple of very bad words – but they’re in Afrikaans, so … what the hey, huh.

* * *

The Sig .357 had twenty rounds in the clip, for which Eliot was very grateful as his first shot fell short by a few inches, kicking up a spurt of red earth.

“Shit!” Eliot cursed, the pain in his leg throbbing like hell through his body and making his vision a little blurry. He wiped the sweat from his palms, adjusted his aim and let off a flurry of shots at the pile of cartridges, emptying the clip.

* * *

Jo flinched, startled, when the first shot came from beneath the veranda, followed by a series of over a dozen or more.

Soapy raised his hand, stopping her from standing up, even as Dietrich and Coetzee came charging through the doorway.

“ _Spencer!_ ” Coetzee snarled. He turned to Dietrich just as the world erupted in a barrage of explosions.

The noise was _deafening_. Over fifty yards away the earth blew apart, and everyone instinctively ducked as bullets blasted and whined through trees and bushes well away from the house. Coetzee cursed and stared down at the deck of the veranda from where the shots had come.

“ _SPENCER!!_ I’m coming for you, _jou maaifoedie!!_ ” He yelled and swiftly turned to Dietrich, who looked a little dazed as the shots and explosions continued. Coetzee gestured at Soapy and Jo. “Watch them!!” And then the South African was through the veranda door and taking the steps two at a time down onto the yard, and he peered under the veranda.

But Eliot was gone.

Coetzee frowned as he made a short circuit of the house and checked for tracks, and then he grinned triumphantly. Boot-marks. And _blood_. Spencer was wounded. He followed the tracks and by the unevenness of Eliot’s stride he realised the American was limping … and the blood-spots were becoming more frequent. So the South African headed off after his quarry, who, Coetzee was certain, would be dead by the end of the day.

* * *

Goldie cut a slice from the tender, succulent steak on his plate, tamping down the increasing queasiness of his stomach in anticipation of eating the delicious morsel. He had been starved of meat during his childhood, having been given a diet of fast food, his mother’s poor cooking or, at times, nothing at all. Stuffing the chunk of meat into his mouth, he was first struck by the juiciness of the meat, and it made him salivate. He closed his eyes, savouring the melt-in-the-mouth treat.

But then … he frowned, puzzled. And then the puzzlement turned to alarm. Oh … oh _bugger_ … the _burn_. His mouth exploded with scorching molten agony as the irritant in the chili attacked the mucous membranes of his mouth. The chili powder Effie had used was made from the fearsome Trinidad Scorpion, Soapy’s favourite, and one of the strongest chili peppers in the world.

At first Goldie tried to suck in air in a vain attempt to cool his scalding mouth, but he choked with the heat, and his eyes began to water. He couldn’t catch his breath, and then he realised the old bitch had _poisoned_ him.

“Sh … shit …” he managed to grind out, but then his head exploded. Or so it seemed. In his pain he realised it wasn’t his head but something which was happening outside, and he heard Coetzee’s yell of anger.

But he couldn’t do anything about it. He spat the steak onto the floor and then his stomach roiled and he began to retch. It seemed as though his insides were trying to turn themselves inside out.

Effie chortled.

But even as he heaved and wept and coughed, Goldie managed to stand up, his eyes streaming as he lurched towards Effie.

But the little cook was in no hurry to get out of the way. Turning back to her old cooking range, she lifted two of her cast iron skillets, hefted them for a moment and then selected the slightly smaller of the two. She turned back to the staggering Goldie, and grinned nastily.

“Smack me in the chops, would you, you grubby shit!” she growled.

And grasping the handle in both hands, she slammed the skillet against the side of Goldie’s head.

He dropped like a poleaxed bullock on the kitchen floor, his jaw broken.

Effie could hear a scuffle on the veranda, but she took the time to jam the syringe needle into Goldie’s left buttock and press the plunger.

Straightening up, she rolled her shoulders and nodded to herself as she studied the battered, half-conscious Goldie, his eyes streaming and throat gagging despite his broken jaw. _Little bastard_.

Taking a couple of steps forward she gave Goldie a hefty kick in the crotch. The helpless cockney shrieked feebly and finally … _blessedly_ … passed out.

Satisfied with the result of her efforts, Effie headed out to the veranda.

* * *

As Coetzee began his desperate hunt to find Eliot, Dietrich started to reach under his arm for the Ruger he carried, but he was still a little nonplussed by the sudden explosions. Soapy however, was as steady and as calm as a cloudless day.

He was also breathtakingly fast.

Before Dietrich could even fold his hand over the butt of the Ruger, Soapy slid the stainless steel scalpel from his right sleeve and he darted forward and smartly punched Dietrich hard in the chest. The German, hurt, startled and winded, was suddenly caught off-balance and staggered backwards against the door jamb.

He opened his mouth to yell for Goldie, but Soapy slammed his forearm against the stocky German’s throat and stuck the razor-sharp scalpel blade against the man’s jaw, pressing hard enough to prick the skin. A trickle of blood ran down Dietrich’s neck to his shirt collar.

“Don’t move, you _arse_ ,” Soapy said quietly. His normally amiable voice was dark with menace, and Dietrich suddenly realised this man was a hair’s breadth away from killing him.

Jo was beside her husband in a second and fished out the Ruger from Dietrich’s shoulder holster, laying it on the table. Her green eyes were bright with fury.

“Hurt my husband, would you??” She pushed her face into Dietrich’s, flourishing the full syringe at him. “Try and kill my Eliot would you, you _bodgie!!_ ”

Dietrich, a man comfortable with killing anyone who got in his way and unafraid of just about anything, didn’t know which one of these two mad people made him more nervous. His gaze flicked from Soapy to Jo and back again, but his teeth rattled in his head as a fist slammed alongside his jaw.

The back of his head bounced off the door jamb, but he was too frightened to move as the scalpel dug deeper into the soft skin under his jawline.

Effie glared up at him, flexing her bruised knuckles.

“If Mister M didn’t already intend to cut your gizzard from earhole to earhole, I’d gut you myself!” she growled. Dietrich suddenly realised she was holding a large carving knife. Her muddy eyes were narrow with anger. “Or maybe …” she poked the knife at him and Dietrich felt the point press against his groin. “ … you’d like to carry on living after I feed your wedding tackle to the dogs, hey?” She shrugged. “Hmmm … although you’d probably bleed to death first. No worries.” She pressed harder. Dietrich whimpered.

And then Jo jammed the syringe into his neck and pushed the contents into his flesh. She wasn’t gentle.

As the German passed out and slowly crumpled to the ground, Soapy let him fall. Lifting the Ruger from the table he looked at Jo and Effie.

“C’mon. He’ll probably be out for hours. We have to go. Coetzee won’t be gone long. Eliot’ll keep him busy for a bit, but we have to get out of here. The boy can’t be worrying about us.”

And the three of them made their way down the veranda steps, along the track and then they melted into the shelter and safety of the almond stand, the great Australian landscape swallowing them and turning them into nothing but shadows.

* * *

Eliot watched from his hiding place deep within a copse of spiny acacia. He knew he had left tracks. He hadn’t bothered trying to hide them, and he knew he was bleeding, leaving a blood-trail that even the worst tracker in the world could follow. Coetzee wouldn’t be far away.

But, he decided, it was worth it, as he saw Soapy swiftly and skilfully take out the German, and he grinned as he saw Effie stump onto the veranda and whack the man alongside the head. He knew then that Effie had taken care of the vicious little cockney who had left the cuts and bruises on her face.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw these three people he cared for more than anything escape into the bush and out of the clutches of the brute that was Mason Coetzee.

Now, Eliot knew, he had to face this man who had come to kill him. Slowly pushing himself to his feet, Eliot backed out of the copse, his side on fire and his leg oozing blood, and limped painfully into the undergrowth.

* * *

Coetzee was a methodical and skilled hunter. The fact that Eliot was wounded wasn’t something to be complacent about. A man like Eliot Spencer was even more lethal when hurt and cornered.

So, Coetzee reasoned, he needn’t be in any rush. Spencer was bleeding, slowly but surely, and loss of blood would get him sooner rather than later. And … the American wouldn’t leave – these people Coetzee was holding hostage meant too much to him. Coetzee _would_ find him.

As he followed the tracks and blood-trail, he pondered his quarry. He had met Spencer only once, as a young man, a soldier, a highly-skilled and very deadly black-ops commander and Coetzee’s enemy. It was obvious that the man had an inherent sense of right and wrong.

But working for Moreau … something had happened to Eliot Spencer. He had lost something that had once been a vital part of him. He had become like Coetzee … a man in whom ethics and feelings had been long destroyed. Coetzee knew such feelings were a drawback to getting what he wanted, and although not a regular employee of Moreau’s, the man paid very well if you did as he demanded … no matter what the requirement.

So, Coetzee wondered, what had happened to Eliot Spencer to begin to change him back … to make him at least a little like that young, oh-so-righteous soldier who had taken his eye so long ago?

Coetzee crouched down and studied a confusion of tracks. He smiled. Spencer had stumbled and fallen to his knees, putting his left hand out to stop himself from collapsing. There was a larger spatter of blood-spots, and the American had waited for long moments before managing to get back on his feet. Blood-loss was beginning to affect him.

Standing up, Coetzee drew his big Sheffield-made bowie knife, the ten-inch blade gleaming dully in the dusty light. Spencer would end his life spitted like a bushbuck on the blade of this knife. Rubbing the ugly, deep scar on his face, Coetzee slowly followed Eliot Spencer’s tracks through the bush.

* * *

Eliot was struggling with encroaching weakness. But he had dealt with worse, so he doggedly kept going, lame and hurt as he was. His aim, basic though it seemed, was to frustrate the hell out of Coetzee and waste some time.

Heading back to the house, he made sure he stumbled and faltered, just to keep Coetzee on track. He checked his watch. There was another hour or so until midday. Taking a deep, pained breath, he battled onward.

* * *

Where the _goddamn hell_ was Prizzi??

Coetzee expected to find the New Yorker recovering from his drinking spree from the previous evening, but there was no sign of the man.

 _Dammit_. He was probably sleeping it off when he _should_ have been watching out for Spencer.

_Shit._

There, in the dirt of the paddock, was the sign of a struggle. By now Coetzee recognised the outline of Eliot Spencer’s boots, but these prints were at least a day old.

 _Sonofabitch_.

He looked up at the roof-line. No Finkelstein.

Cursing, Coetzee hurried towards the barn.

* * *

Soapy led Jo and Effie along the track, and then he spotted a small arrow scratched into the surface of a large rock, the mark pointing north-east. The little pastoralist grinned. Eliot had prepared the way for them, and he was letting them know he was still alive and kicking.

Following the signs for the next thirty minutes, with Effie wheezing and complaining about her bunions and Jo cajoling the little cook along, Soapy headed for the spot where Eliot and Charlie had camped on the far side of the billabong. Once there, he headed west to the clearing he knew was the original meeting place for the _Warumungu_ tribe on Wapanjara land. It was the ancient marker denoting the tribal ceremonial place that Charlie had left on the seat of the SUV.

All three of them were tired and stressed by the time Soapy led them to this special place, and the first thing Soapy saw was a mostly-naked man tied to a stringybark. The man was badly dehydrated, his chest covered in raw, inflamed welts caused, Soapy was sure, by bull ant stings, and he was only semi-conscious.

“Oh _thank God_ … help … help me … please …” he croaked dryly as his puffy eyes spotted Effie.

Effie, in a foul mood because her feet hurt and also because she was fed up with all of this nonsense, stumped over to Prizzi, gazed at him with venom for a moment or two, and then punched him hard on the nose.

* * *

When Coetzee found Nkunda, he finally realised he had seriously miscalculated Eliot Spencer’s abilities.

He had been told the man was recovering from a serious wound, and would probably not be back at full strength. Seven men plus using his own considerable skills _should_ have been enough to deal with one injured man.

Coetzee cursed his own poor judgement, and realised he should never have assumed that Eliot would be a relatively easy mark.

He studied Nkunda’s bound and unconscious form, left where he could be easily found and with the syringe still sticking in his neck. Coetzee knew that the big African wouldn’t be of any use to him for hours.

He also understood with sudden clarity that Spencer was leading him by the nose around the homestead, showing him how easy it had been for the ex-soldier to take out his team and sending the message that he, Mason Coetzee, was a moron.

Cursing, Coetzee turned on his heels and began to run back to the homestead, leaving Nkunda still bound and vulnerable on the barn floor.

* * *

The house contained nothing but silence and two unconscious men. Coetzee was disgusted to see vomit and a piece of half-chewed steak on the kitchen floor. That old _viswyf_ really _had_ poisoned the little cockney, not that the _dumkop_ didn’t deserve it, Coetzee thought. He would remind himself to slice the old bitch’s throat once he had disposed of Spencer.

So … he was on his own. But, he reasoned, that was okay. Spencer had taken out his men and freed his captives, but he knew the American was still around and bleeding badly. Coetzee understood that Eliot couldn’t leave the job unfinished. It was one-on-one now, and it was kill or be killed, because both of them knew they had to finish this … _situation_ , if that’s what it could be called. Eliot knew Coetzee wouldn’t stop, so he had to finish it here and now.

So sliding the big knife back into its sheath for now, Coetzee poured himself a glass of Effie’s excellent home-made lemonade from the pitcher in the refrigerator, put two lamingtons on a plate, and headed outside. Tucking a folding chair from the veranda under one arm, he carried the whole lot down to the yard.

Placing the chair in plain sight, he sat down and settled himself. He took a sip of the deliciously cold lemonade and gazed at the surrounding trees and undergrowth, and then at the small crater blown in the dirt over by the homestead fence. The breezy day stirred the earth and the trees whispered to themselves in the light wind.

“You out there, Spencer?” Coetzee called out.

He was answered with silence. He took a bite of one of the lamingtons, and groaned with pleasure.

“That old cow can sure cook, _rooinek_. It’s a shame I’ll have to kill her, man. Or maybe I’ll sell her to Moreau. He likes good food. But on second thoughts …” Coetzee paused for a moment and then continued. “He’d gut her in less than a day. The stupid _fokker_ has a bit of a mouth on her, hey?”

He finished his lamington and drank more of the lemonade, and waited.

* * *

Soapy stuck the Ruger in his pants belt and hugged Jo.

“Righto, old girl. You stay put, look after Effie –“

Jo scowled and Effie snorted.

“Do you really think Effie needs looking after?” Jo said testily, gesturing at the unconscious Prizzi still lashed to the stringybark. “If anything, we should be asking _her_ to go help Eliot,” she added. Then Jo’s face began to crumple even as her eyes shone hot with anger. “Go help our boy, Soapy … he needs us. He’s still not healed up, and … and …”

Soapy kissed his wife on the nose.

“I will, love. I promise. But I need to know that you two are safe, okay? I can’t be worrying about you as well. I think Eliot’s taken out the rest of Coetzee’s crew, but I can’t be sure. So stay put, y’hear me??”

Jo nodded, and Effie came to stand beside her.

Soapy looked at both of them. They were a truly formidable pair, and he pitied any of Coetzee’s men who might be still upright and who happened upon them. The poor bastards wouldn’t stand a chance.

Effie flourished her carving knife.

“We’ll be ready,” she growled. “Go help that daft young poddie,” she continued. “And if any of ‘em have hurt even one hair on his head, I swear to God I’ll bloody castrate ‘em. _Slowly_.”

Soapy grinned, despite his worry.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and within seconds was gone, fading into the bush like a ghost.

Effie looked at Jo.

“Don’t you worry, Missus. Mister M’ll make sure the lad’s safe, I’m sure of it. He’d bloody better be,” she added quietly.

But as the two women settled down to wait, they didn’t notice the lead rein swinging loosely in the breeze by a gum tree, the clip twisted and broken … a lead rein that had once tethered a large brown camel.

Gertie was gone.

* * *

Eliot watched Coetzee finish the second lamington and then drink the rest of the lemonade.

Leaning against an old gum tree opposite the house, Eliot knew he was well-enough hidden from Coetzee. But he also knew he had to do _something_. He looked down at his leg. Blood soaked the bandage and tape and the stain was now beginning to work its way down his lower leg. He had left blood on the ground with every step, and he knew he was fast running out of time. If he didn’t deal with Coetzee now, he would pass out with blood-loss. Coetzee would slaughter him like an animal and then the South African would track down and kill Soapy, Jo and Effie.

Decision made, Eliot pushed himself away from the tree trunk and steadied himself. Drawing the Ka-Bar knife from its sheath, he took several deep breaths, gritted his teeth, and clenching his jaw against the pain, he limped out of the shelter of the trees and walked straight towards Mason Coetzee.

 

To be continued …


	16. The War Whoop of 'The Push'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence has ensued and there are a number of rude Afrikaans words.

* * *

“Well, well, well … that didn’t take long,” Coetzee grinned as he watched a dusty, bloody figure limp out of the undergrowth, knife in hand.

Standing up and calmly folding the chair, Coetzee placed both plate and chair on the steps leading to the veranda. Then drawing his own knife, he wandered back to the centre of the big yard and waited.

“Well, you ain’t got any prettier,” Eliot rasped, as he eased to a halt. “Man, that eye looks just plain nasty,” he added, allowing a smile to creep onto his face.

Coetzee twitched. He knew the milky, ruined blindness of his eye and the wide, ugly scar down his face wasn’t exactly attractive. Even the women he bought for himself in Bangkok shied away from him, and only tolerated his rough attentions because he paid well.

He spent a moment or two studying the man who had maimed him all those years ago. Spencer wasn’t the intense young soldier he remembered. He had filled out with maturity. Although only of medium height, he was broad-shouldered and powerful even as it was instantly obvious to Coetzee that injury and long recovery had taken its toll on the American. He looked lean and hungry, and he held himself carefully, trying to stay balanced and ready for anything. But he also noticed the wild, haunted look in Eliot’s eyes. He had seen that look before, in war-weary soldiers who had been in the field for far too long.

Eliot’s wounded, bleeding leg wrapped with duct tape made Coetzee sneer with anticipation.

“Y’know, all I have to do is keep walking around you, _bosse_ , and I can finish you off when the blood’s almost out of you – and by the look of you, I won’t have much of a wait.”

Eliot waggled the Ka-Bar nonchalantly at Coetzee, grinning wryly.

“Nah,” he said softly. “That’s not your style, now, is it?” He cocked his head to one side. “I see Moreau has someone else doing his dirty work for him, as usual.”

Coetzee shrugged.

“Yeah, well … the pay’s good. _Very_ good.” He frowned, puzzled, and asked Eliot the question that had been bothering him ever since he had been hired to kill the Oklahoman. “Hey … speaking of which … why leave, man? You had a good thing going on, _boetie_ … money, women … anything you wanted.”

Eliot limped forward a few more steps, leaving blood in every right boot-print. He didn’t have time for this, and to be honest, he didn’t feel like explaining anything to this murderous bastard.

“C’mon, Coetzee,” he drawled, “stop friggin’ monologuing like some goddamn supervillain. You want me? Come get me.”

And settling himself into a fighting stance, Eliot lifted his left hand and gestured at the South African. It said ‘I’m here. All you gotta do is try and take me.’

Coetzee straightened to his full six feet four inches, and readied himself. His reach was long, he was unhurt and fresh. Eliot’s lean, exhausted five-ten was at a distinct disadvantage, and even further compromised by a bleeding wound.

But instead of bracing Eliot, Coetzee began to slowly walk around the American, hoping to make him shift and put added strain on the injured leg without expending any energy himself.

Eliot didn’t move. He didn’t even watch Coetzee, knowing what he was up to and relying on his experience and instinct to monitor the man’s movements. He knew how slim his chances were of taking Coetzee down. So he had to make the most of what he had – which was virtually nothing.

The Ka-Bar knife was the only viable weapon he had, and he had to overcome poor muscle control, exhaustion and pain. But he had fought Coetzee before and scarred the big man for life, although Eliot was younger then, fit and uninjured. He had some knowledge about the man’s strengths and weaknesses, plus Coetzee was older. Pros and cons. That was how life went, he supposed.

 _Oh well_ , he thought wearily, _better get on with it …_

He sensed Coetzee suddenly closing in behind him and to his left.

Using his left arm to block the blow Coetzee aimed at him, Eliot twisted and used his shorter stature to his advantage, and the bigger man’s knife was deflected sideways and rather than attempt to stab Coetzee, Eliot used the heel of his knife hand to slam into Coetzee’s left biceps, hitting the nerve endings there.

Coetzee hissed in surprise and pain and staggered back, flexing his left arm to try and get the feeling back in it.

Eliot stumbled a little but righted himself quickly, and despite his pain and weakness he followed up the blows he had already inflicted with a measured slice across Coetzee’s right forearm.

“ _Kak!_ ” the big man cursed, clutching his arm for a moment as blood welled from the shallow gash.

Limping backwards, Eliot grinned and settled back into his stance, forcing his muscles to relax and ease the tension in his joints. He had to be as quick and as mobile as he could, given the damage to his body.

Coetzee glared at the younger man, and raised his left arm in a classic blocking gesture and he kept his right arm low, the knife pointing forwards. Eliot also noticed that the South African kept his head tilted slightly to the left, keeping his watchful gaze on Eliot with his good eye.

Eliot moved slightly sideways, to Coetzee’s left. The man shifted on the balls of his feet and moved his body rather than moving his head, keeping Eliot in view. Here, the younger man reasoned, was Coetzee’s weakness – his blind side. It wasn’t much of a weakness, as Coetzee was a renowned knife fighter even with only one functional eye. But, Eliot decided, it was the only advantage he had, and in this case the best form of defence was attack.

Before Coetzee could react, Eliot launched himself in a low body-roll past the man’s left side, came straight to his knees and slid the Ka-Bar along the back of Coetzee’s left leg. But he was instantly aware that the knife-blow hadn’t been powerful enough … certainly not enough to slice through the tendons at the back of the big man’s knee. But the cut _hurt_.

Coetzee bellowed in anger and he lashed out skilfully with his left fist, and the blow hit Eliot in the shoulder, punching him back into the dirt and sending him sprawling.

But Eliot did his best to roll with the punch despite pain flaring down his arm from the impact, and he managed to regain his balance and come up onto his knees and then stagger to his feet, attempting to be ready and poised to meet everything Coetzee threw at him.

The mercenary came at Eliot with the force of an angry rhino.

Like many big men he was confident that his strength and height was an advantage, but after years of living on the edge, Coetzee quickly re-evaluated Eliot Spencer and his skills.

Wounded or not, the man was deadly. But Eliot was gasping, trying to steady his breathing and he shook his head, shaking sweat from his eyes. The initial flurry of blows had drained his energy to dangerously low levels, but even as Coetzee took the fight to Eliot, the younger man settled back into a defensive stance. But he had less than two seconds before Coetzee was on him, his left arm sweeping sideways to block Eliot’s knife-hand with his own knife aiming for the American’s abdomen.

How Eliot managed to avoid the knife-thrust he wasn’t quite sure, but with a wild, uncoordinated twist to one side he felt the knife slice through his teeshirt and leave a shallow gash along the skin of his stomach, and he hissed with pain.

But then he was falling backwards and grabbing Coetzee’s wrist with his left hand, carrying on with the move sideways.

Coetzee was already slowing his movement forwards knowing he had only nicked Eliot with his blade, and the strong hand that grasped his wrist only unbalanced him to the point where he almost went to one knee.

The two men became entangled and fell in a flurry of limbs. The fall knocked the wind out of Eliot, and Coetzee wrenched his right hand free, the bowie knife stained with Eliot’s blood.

Gasping, hurt and winded, Eliot knew he couldn’t take a moment to catch his breath. Coetzee was wrapping a powerful arm around his chest but Eliot managed to wrench himself loose and rolled free of Coetzee’s vise-like grasp.

Coetzee scrambled after him and Eliot yelped as pain from his wounds shot through him. The mercenary grinned to himself. Reaching forward with his free hand he closed strong fingers around Eliot’s left ankle and jerked the American off balance and back down into the dust.

Eliot landed flat on his back with a yell of agony. Winded for the second time in less than ten seconds, he tried to scramble backwards but failed, and Coetzee began to pull him towards the waiting bowie knife. Eliot knew then that the big man was aiming to gut him alive.

Desperate, hurting and baring his teeth with the effort, Eliot raised himself on his elbows. With strength he didn’t know he had, he swung his wounded leg sideways and his heavy boot connected with Coetzee’s head on his blind side.

Coetzee howled with pain and let go of Eliot’s ankle. He rolled away from the younger man and clutched at the split in his scarred cheek, blood streaming down his face and neck.

Eliot wriggled onto his belly, managed to get his arms and legs under him and crawled away towards the struts of the veranda. As soon as a steel upright was within reach he used it to haul himself to his feet, his damaged leg protesting at the strain.

Coetzee levered himself upright. “You can’t get away, _boetie_ … you’re all mine, y’hear me? All _fokkin’ mine!!_ ” he spat, smearing blood away from his lips and firming his grip on the bowie.

Eliot, sagging with exhaustion and trying his best to suck air into his starved lungs, grinned and managed to stand straight and as balanced as he could as blood trickled into the dust at his feet, and the cut across his belly slowly seeped red into the filthy teeshirt.

“You … you’re nothin’, Coetzee. Always have been … always will be, _tsotsi_ *. You hurt people I care about. But … I won’t kill you. You want to know why?”

Coetzee limped slowly towards Eliot, teeth stained red in his rictus of a grin. He too was now dripping blood into the dusty ground.

“Why the hell d’you think I care?” he growled.

Eliot shrugged.

“Because you’re goin’ to tell Moreau why he’s gonna quit chasin’ me and mine and leave us alone,” he said quietly.

“And why’s that?” Coetzee sneered, but without waiting for an answer he lunged at Eliot, and the smaller man had to push himself away from the upright strut and stumble to one side.

They were both hurt now, and the injury in Coetzee’s leg was beginning to slow him down, which had been Eliot’s intention. Eliot feinted with his knife towards Coetzee’s chest and the big man, his face swelling and bleeding and with limited vision flinched, and Eliot slid sideways and landed a vicious punch with his left fist to Coetzee’s ribs, sending the man spiralling away.

But Coetzee, although off-balance, stayed on his feet and came in low, his knife aimed unerringly at Eliot’s chest. How the younger man slipped past the blade Coetzee didn’t know, but Eliot placed two smart, hard punches over the South African’s kidneys.

His back arching with the crushing pain, Coetzee whirled like a viper and caught Eliot’s wrist and in a split second both men fell to their knees and tumbled into the dust.

But Eliot had no more to give. The impact of his damaged frame on the hard ground loosened his grip on his knife, and his head hit the yard surface hard enough to make his vision darken around the edges, unconsciousness just moments away.

Coetzee sat up, ribs heaving and his face and limbs blood-streaked and dirty. He coughed and spat bloody saliva, and then got to his feet.

For a second or two he studied the semi-conscious American, and then gritting his teeth against the sting of the various injuries to his big frame, Coetzee bent down, grasped Eliot’s wounded leg and hauled him back to the middle part of the big yard.

Eliot didn’t even have enough breath left to yell in agony. His head was throbbing from the impact on the ground and his vision was blurred. He felt blood run from under the sodden bandage on his leg and the cut across his stomach, and he knew now that he was a dead man. Mason Coetzee was going to kill him, and he, Eliot Spencer, couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.

“Hey, _boetie_ …” Coetzee snarled, leaning over Eliot and gazing into dulled blue eyes, “are you ready, little man? Hey?”

Eliot groaned, but then he took a couple of shallow breaths and gave Coetzee a sneering grin.

“Go … go screw yourself, dipshit!” he croaked.

Coetzee curled his lip and backhanded Eliot across the face. When the big mercenary grabbed the front of Eliot’s teeshirt and pulled him upwards to a semi-seated position, the Oklahoman’s head lolled back, and his arms lay limp at his sides. He was done. Eliot was unconscious, and when Coetzee let go of the teeshirt, Eliot collapsed, sprawling bonelessly on the dusty red earth.

Coetzee traced Eliot’s bloody features with the clipped-back blade of the bowie and then ran the razor-sharp edge gently down the younger man’s chest to just below his sternum.

Eliot didn’t move. Coetzee scowled. He had hit Spencer too hard. The man was supposed to be conscious when Coetzee sliced him open from chest to navel and held his guts up for Eliot to see as he died. _Oh well_. He leaned over and set the point of his knife at the notch of Eliot’s sternum and began to press. A small stain of deep red began to soak through the new cut in Eliot’s teeshirt.

And it was then that a huge, brown, hairy object came roaring out of the bush, honking and roaring with its big, ugly head extended with long, yellow teeth bared in fury.

Coetzee, for once in his long, misbegotten life, was confused.

“ _Yoh_ – you have got to be _fokken befok!_ ” he growled to himself, and he straightened, taking several steps back towards the veranda, leaving the wounded American lying insensible and bleeding on the ground.

Gertie didn’t stop, even when Coetzee waved his arms and shouted expletives at her, the big man incensed at the interruption. Where the hell a camel came into the equation the mercenary didn’t know, but the thing carried a saddle and a loose rein flapped around the animal’s front legs.

She headed straight for Coetzee. She gurgled and huffed and roared, and set herself between Eliot and the South African, all the while being as careful as possible so as to not harm Eliot and protect him the only way she knew how.

 _So … the camel was Spencer’s_ , Coetzee reasoned. He studied her from his place beside the struts holding up the veranda and he flourished the knife when Gertie got too close, nicking the sensitive rim of her nostril.

Gertie bawled in pain and shook her head, splattering small droplets of blood over Coetzee. She backed off, sneezing, and stood over Eliot, dropping her head to sniff him and nudge at his side. He didn’t move. She whiffled at his hair and gently licked his face, but she got no reaction, and she became more and more agitated.

Coetzee took a couple of steps forward. If he could cripple the camel, he could get to Spencer, but the animal was obviously angry, and he would have to be careful. He had worked with camels before, and he knew how capricious they could be if crossed. And this one … she was goddamn _furious_.

He began talking to the creature, his voice low and cajoling, and he held out a hand to see if he could catch hold of the loose rein. The thing was obviously tame, despite its ire, and he thought if he could catch the animal it might calm down and its training would kick in. Then he could cut its throat and deal with Spencer.

Gertie’s harrumphing softened and her ears pricked forward as she listened to this strange man’s voice. But something wasn’t right. She could smell the blood and sense the pain in Eliot, and he wasn’t moving, which set off alarms. Normally if she nudged him or licked his hair or rubbed her great head on his chest, he would scratch her itchy bits and his voice was always gruff with affection no matter how much he complained.

This other human … he had already hurt Gertie’s nose with the sharp thing in his hand, and she could smell blood on him. She took several steps to one side and eyed Eliot, and then turned back to Coetzee.

“C’mon, you stupid bitch –“ he swore, and his irritated voice finally tipped the balance.

Gertie’s neck snaked out, her grumbling gurgle getting louder and louder, and before Coetzee realised what she was doing Gertie’s cheeks pouted and she vomited up a spewing spray of half-digested stomach contents, covering the South African with stinking effluvia.

He yelped and staggered back into the veranda supports, trying frantically to wipe off the disgusting mess, and Gertie bawled aggressively, baring her teeth. Now assured that Coetzee wasn’t an immediate threat she stood over Eliot, his limp frame guarded by her huge bulk, and her head dropped to check him again, nudging at his face and arm. She lipped at his hand, but she got no response. She gurgled in alarm and distress, and then Coetzee was back in her field of vision.

The one-eyed camel glared at this one-eyed man, and she chomped her jaws threateningly, but Coetzee took no notice and he lunged forward to catch her flapping rein.

“Got you!” he snarled, stinking and wet from Gertie’s stomach contents. Pulling on the rein, he raised his knife.

But even as Gertie pulled back, trying to jerk the rein free, she was startled by the loud crack of a semi-automatic pistol.

Dirt erupted from the ground by Coetzee’s boot and the man let out a yelp of surprise, and he turned to the undergrowth by the almond stand.

Soapy stood there, the Ruger poised and as steady as a rock, and he adjusted his aim.

The next bullet clipped Coetzee’s knife, shattering the blade.

The South African knew when he was out-manoeuvred. He staggered backwards with the impact of the round and his hand was numb, but he managed to head away from Gertie and the unconscious Eliot Spencer and he began to limp towards the barn where the SUVs were stored.

It was then that he felt the ground begin to tremble, and he heard the distant bawls of excited cattle and the crack of many stock whips in the dusty air.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s note:**  
  
* _Tsotsi_ \- a Sesotho slang word for a ‘thug’. Sesotho is a conglomeration of local languages and dialects prevalent in South Africa.


	17. When an Outlaw Broke from a Station Mob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there be violence and a bit of gruesomeness.

* * *

“Eliot!!” Soapy gasped, and began running, tucking the Ruger back in his pants belt. He could hear the mob coming. Instinctively he knew Charlie would be bringing the cattle in fast, hoping to disrupt whatever was going on at the homestead, just trusting Eliot to have Soapy, Jo and Effie free in time for the stampede.

He saw Coetzee making his way towards the cattle yards, and he could see that wounded as he was, Eliot had made his mark on the big man. Coetzee was bloody, limping and slow.

But Soapy didn’t have time to worry about Coetzee. Eliot was down, and he was hurt … he could even be dead, Soapy didn’t know.

Gertie swung around as she spotted Soapy, Eliot between her feet, limp and bleeding, his Ka-Bar knife lying by his right hand. She began to honk, alarmed, and Soapy slowed to a walk even as he heard the mob getting closer and closer and he could hear the yells of the stockmen, driving the cattle on in a collected, tight bunch, a deadly force and one which Charlie was driving straight into the yards … and straight past the homestead.

“Gertie, old girl,” Soapy crooned, “we have to move Eliot out of the way, so stop being a silly old bastard and let me help …”

Gertie flapped her bottom lip in agitation and then dropped her head to sniff Eliot. She whiffled at the blood-soaked taped bandage on his leg and grumbled softly. Eliot let out a soft moan.

Soapy sighed with relief. Now all he had to do was get Gertie to calm down and let him help his young friend.

“Gert … Gertie …” Eliot surfaced slowly from oblivion, and he lifted his right hand, waving it in the general direction of Gertie’s head. The big camel’s ears pricked and she lipped at Eliot’s fingers.

“Eliot! Make her _koosh_ , mate!! Get her to sit down!!” Soapy yelled, trying to get closer, only for Gertie to harrumph at him in alarm.

Eliot, only half-conscious and not too sure what was happening, reached for Gertie’s _bosal_ as she went back to nosing him, moaning with concern. Forcing his fingers to curl around the soft rope, he managed to open his eyes.

Everything was blurry and he hurt, _god_ , how he hurt, and his leg was on fire and he now had a really, _really_ sore bit just under his breastbone. But Soapy was here, and he was telling Eliot to make Gertie sit down. He didn’t know why the man wanted him to do so, but he took a painful breath, pulled on Gertie’s _bosal_ and then let go.

“ _Koosh_ … _koosh_ , darlin’” he ground out, and Gertie did exactly as she was asked. Very, _very_ carefully, she stepped aside and folded herself down on the ground beside Eliot, her huge bulk warm and solid, sheltering him as well as she could.

The thundering noise got louder and louder, and the bawl of the cattle and whoops of the stockmen echoed and drummed through the gusty wind.

Gertie sat, alert and worried, and then opened her mouth to show her long yellow teeth as she gurgled and complained. She somehow knew Eliot was hurt and vulnerable, and she could sense the oncoming sea of cattle.

Soapy took a chance and ran forward to stand over Eliot. Gertie grumbled and honked, but did no more than that as Eliot clumsily ran his hand down her shoulder, reassuring her. All he knew was that he didn’t have the strength to move, and Gertie was there to make sure he was safe.

Soapy’s voice came from above him.

“Lie still, son … cattle don’t like camels. She’ll keep you alive, so be still and trust us, alright?”

“Co … Coetzee …” Eliot gasped.

“Heading towards the barn,” Soapy answered, pulling out the Ruger and checking the load. “Don’t worry about him. Just be still. Jo and Effie are already going to skin you alive for getting hurt again, so if I let anything else happen to you my life’s over, mate.”

Eliot could sense the humour in Soapy’s voice.

“They … they okay?” he asked and then grunted as his bad leg sent a spasm of agony through him.

“They’re fine,” Soapy assured him even as he strained his eyes to check the horizon. The mob was getting closer, and there was no way he could move Eliot in time. _This is going to be interesting_ , he thought. “Effie’s on the warpath and Jo’s not much better, but they’re both perfectly safe, boy, so don’t fret.”

“Thank god,” Eliot murmured. “Charlie … Charlie bringin’ in the cattle?” he asked hazily, trying to move and failing.

“Yeah … fast,” Soapy answered, looking down at Eliot tucked in beside Gertie. “You don’t move, Eliot, okay. Do. Not. _Move_.”

“I’ll … I’ll be fine … get out of the way, Soapy … Gertie’ll –“

“I’m staying put, boy, so shut up, sit tight and let Gertie and me deal with it. Coetzee’s still around and he’ll be able to get weapons from the office, so –“

Eliot chuckled and then coughed. His stomach muscles hurt too, but he couldn’t remember why.

“No … no ammo. Used it for the distraction,” he ground out, and then was muffled by Gertie’s big head craning around to lick his face. “Mmmff … stop that!” he grumbled, waving his hand in the air, but she just mumbled at him and then whiffled his hair.

The cattle were getting much closer, and suddenly a rider burst into view.

It was Charlie Jakkamarra, crouched low over Bomber’s neck as the little gelding ran at a flat-out gallop, and behind him flowed over two hundred big, red cattle, Brahmans every one, each weighing over a thousand pounds.

In an instant Charlie had a grasp of the situation.

To his right he saw Coetzee, limping steadfastly towards the barn. He appeared to be unarmed, but Charlie knew the SUVs were stored in there, and he didn’t know if they contained weapons. Besides, there was the gun case in the station office.

To his left, in the big open space in front of and surrounding the homestead, he saw Gertie. She was lying down, and her head swung upwards from something on the ground beside her, and Soapy was there, waving wildly. Charlie’s dark eyes widened. _Eliot was hurt and couldn’t move._

He had to try and turn the mob.

Kneeing Bomber to one side, he headed for Gertie, and just yards from the camel he reined Bomber in. Just a touch on the bit and Bomber applied the brakes. He tucked in his quarters, planted all four hooves on the ground and came to a rump-sliding halt. But he didn’t stop there. The slight pressure from Charlie’s left knee told Bomber to whirl around and position himself in front of Gertie.

In a split second Charlie stood up in the stirrups and loosened his stock whip. Nearly seven feet of plaited kangaroo hide curled skilfully over Charlie’s head and with a downward move of his arm, he sent a crack of sound though the air that reached as far as the stragglers in the mob, being harried by the station’s three heelers*.

Charlie thought for a moment that he had done it – that he had turned the mass of cattle towards the barn, but no. His heart sank as the mob did something he didn’t expect – it split in two. It was an uneven split, with twenty or more bullocks heading straight for Charlie and Gertie. The rest of the mob streamed past the top end of the homestead and straight for the barn and the yards.

Bomber skittered to the side to avoid the rush. Most of the beasts were polled … hornless … but half-a-dozen of them were horned, and Bomber knew by experience that horned cattle not used to human contact would hook sideways to clear the way.

Charlie twisted in his saddle.

“SOAPY!! WATCH OUT!!”

But Soapy was already moving. He shifted to stand over Eliot and he leaned on Gertie’s back, hanging onto her saddle. Lifting the Ruger, he fired a series of shots over the animals’ heads.

Gertie turned her head at the noise, snaked out her neck and roared, her teeth showing, and the cattle began to prop their front legs so as to try and avoid this weird thing lying in front of them.

Eliot lay prone. His world had telescoped to nothing but noise and commotion, the strong smell of camel and Gertie’s comforting bulk the only thing of which he was certain. He could hear cattle bawling and felt the thunder of their hooves. He sensed Soapy standing over him, and then came the sound of shots.

Gertie was suddenly hit hard by something bulky, shoving Eliot sideways and Soapy was knocked from his feet. Eliot instinctively caught hold of Soapy’s shirt as the pastoralist hit the ground, and pulled as hard as he could. He felt the man’s spare frame shrink into his grip, curling up and covering his head with his arms. Eliot didn’t have much strength, but he knew he had to protect Soapy, and he tried to roll onto his side and yank the man tight against his damaged chest.

“BLOODY HELL!!” Soapy yelled, and then something huge and red-brown arched above him, and Gertie bawled as the thing tried to jump over her. Over a thousand pounds of bullock tried its best to scramble over one camel and two human beings, and suddenly a pair of enormous hooves planted themselves just a couple of feet from Eliot’s face. A tail and the back feet then appeared, just inches from Eliot, and the beast slid forwards as it tried to regain its balance.

The animal was on the point of collapsing right on top of Eliot and Soapy.

But Gertie swung her head around, opened her powerful jaws and bit the bullock hard on its meaty rump.

The animal bellowed and lurched forward, and kicking up dirt it slipped down onto its belly, righted itself and staggered to its feet.

The rest of the cattle, scared of this smelly brown thing lying in their way, managed to swerve around Gertie and head straight into the camel’s paddock beside the homestead. Eliot was suddenly aware of Bomber, with Charlie aboard and yelling like a banshee, galloping past and following the small mob. Bomber bounced to a halt beside the gate, and Charlie leaned over, swung the gate shut and snicked the bolt home.

* * *

Coetzee was heading for the SUVs. He was hurt but mobile, and he knew that there were weapons in both vehicles. The keys were stuck behind the sun visor, and he could be out of this godforsaken hole in the back of nowhere in less that fifteen minutes.

But as he limped towards the big, open entrance to the barn, he became aware of the lumbering, steady mob of cattle heading towards him.

Irritated, he knew this would hold up his plans for a vital few minutes as the animals passed by, but he wasn’t overly concerned. Speeding up as much as he could, he managed to ease himself between the big fuel storage tank for the tractors and a stack of pallets, and the ground began to really shake as the first of the cattle lumbered past, starting to slow down as they saw the big, heavy fences of the yards ahead of them.

Horses and riders thundered by, whips cracking over their heads, and the cattle began to funnel into the yard enclosures, and all the while Coetzee stood unseen in his hiding place beside the tank.

The last of the cattle began to trot by, and Coetzee lifted a length of piping from where it was propped beside the tank and decided it was time to move.

He almost made it. He was halfway towards the barn entrance when a frenzied barking began. One of Soapy’s blue heelers spotted him, and the dog’s instinctive protective streak came to the fore.

“Dammit!” the mercenary swore, and hefted the pipe just as the dog began to bait him. Coetzee swung at the animal, but the dog managed to slide past the blow and backed off, barking hysterically.

Coetzee suddenly realised there was a small group of stragglers heading towards him, trotting towards the yards. It was led by a big grey brahman.

The beast stopped dead in its tracks.

It wasn’t a bullock, this one. It was a huge rogue bull, one that had been missed as a calf and left uncastrated to roam the enormous paddocks, hiding in small valleys and wood stands. It weighed nearly eighteen hundred pounds, and it had a pair of wickedly curved horns. And it had never seen a human being on foot before.

Coetzee felt a cold chill trickle down his spine. He lifted the pipe, but he instinctively knew it would be no defence whatsoever.

The bull studied him with small, angry eyes, and it lowered its head and hooked the air with its horns.

Coetzee took a couple of steps backwards, trying hard not to aggravate the animal, but he knew, in that one, heart-stopping moment, that he was too late. Far _, far_ too late.

Even as he began to backpedal as fast as he could, the bull was on him.

Coetzee swung wildly at the mass of animal before him and he felt the jar of the blow as the pipe hit the bull’s bony head, but the huge, muscular neck swung the animal’s arc’d horns straight at Coetzee.

He felt an almighty blow in the centre of his chest and then something shattered deep inside him. One of the long, curved horns speared him beneath his sternum, and Coetzee screamed.

The bull lifted the South African, all two hundred and twenty-five pounds and six-feet-four of Mason Coetzee, straight into the air and the horn continued through his body and shattered his spine.

The scream died in his throat as Coetzee lost his breath, his lungs compressing with the pressure of the massive horn impaling his chest cavity. As he was flung into the air he saw the bull’s eye, wild and angry and ringed with white, and then he was on the ground, a gaping hole in his chest and his intestines ripped to shreds with the impact as the bull backed off, the horn sliding free.

The animal’s nostrils flared with the heavy scent of coppery blood, and the other animals in the little group milled uneasily, trampling the ground in their fear.

Coetzee lay there, his eyes fixed on the faded blue of the dust-filled sky, and the last thing he ever saw was the bull above him as it knelt on him and crushed him to a pulp into the red dirt.

* * *

“Eliot? Eliot … son … it’s me … it’s Jo … can you hear me?”

Eliot groaned feebly. He was lying flat on his back on the ground, and he could feel Gertie’s comforting warmth beside him. A soft, velvety muzzle lipped at his hand. Gertie was worried about him.

“Jo …??” he croaked. “You … Effie … not hurt?”

He felt fingers brush his hair back off his forehead, and the coolness of that touch made him finally realise that he was safe and these people he loved were alive and well.

“We’re fine, boy. You … not so much.”

Eliot felt Jo’s gentle hands move from his forehead to his chest, and he heard her small murmur of distress.

“Oh, Eliot … you’re a mess, lad!”

“Yeah …” he whispered. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“So you bloody well should be, you mongrel!” Effie muttered, and Eliot felt her kneel awkwardly beside him and he managed to open his eyes.

Effie’s homely face, furious with concern, stared back at him, but her mud-coloured eyes were moist with tears.

Eliot lifted a hand and Effie caught it, holding it tight. Eliot squeezed her fingers.

“Nothin’ … nothin’ one of your lamingtons won’t put right,” he murmured, and then he winked at her.

Effie scowled.

“You young bludger, I’ll give you bloody lamingtons, so I will!! Look at the state of you! I’ll be cleaning blood out of your clothes for ruddy days!! And now the Missus’ll have to spend time stitching you up, and this time you stay in your damn’ bed until I say you can get up, you hear me??”

“Effie –“

“Don’t you bloody ‘Effie’ me, you … you … _Yank_ , you!!!”

Eliot huffed.

“Not … not a Yank –“

Effie wasn’t listening, even as many hands cradled Eliot and lifted him from the ground beside Gertie, and began to carry him into the house.

“You’ll do as you’re bloody told, you daft bastard, so don’t you dare move and I’ll go get the medical kit when we get you settled, and I don’t want to hear any arguments from you, my lad!!” she growled.

Eliot, fading into unconsciousness, smiled.

“Yes, Effie,” he said quietly, and as he was gently carried up the veranda steps, Effie walked beside him, and refused to let go of his hand.

* * *

As Jo settled Eliot onto his bed and began to clean him up, Effie headed to the kitchen, stepped over the still-unconscious body of Goldie and peered out of the kitchen door. She had a minute to spare, so she stumped out of the house and headed for the yards.

The cattle were now all contained, including the huge bull, its head, horns and chest covered in blood. Stockmen were gathering around something on the ground, and as Effie hobbled over to them, one of the younger men turned away and vomited.

Effie elbowed her way through the gathering and looked down at the thing on the ground which had once been a man. Now it was nothing more than meat, bone and ragged clothing, but Effie smiled to herself as she studied what remained of Mason Coetzee.

“Serves you right, you piece of shit,” she said.

And then she spat on the corpse, turned, and ambled back to the house to help take care of her boy.

 

To be continued …

* * *

**Author’s note:**

*Heelers – Australia’s famed cattle dogs. Properly called Australian Cattle Dogs, they were originally bred from droving dogs from the north of England crossed with dingoes. They’re nicknamed ‘heelers’ because they will nip and bite at the heels of reluctant cattle.

 


	18. We'll Get it from the Devil

The police arrived at Wapanjara two hours and twenty-three minutes later, alerted by Charlie’s brother who had wearily ridden to the _Warumungu_ community centre on a very tired old mare.

Lying outside on the ground in front of the veranda were five men, all bound, and looking somewhat the worst for wear.

When Effie appeared on the veranda to welcome Detective Inspector Tom Reid of Tennant Creek, two of the men shrieked with terror. One was almost naked and had a broken nose and red welts on his chest. The other had a massive bruise on his face and stank of vomit. They both babbled incoherently when they saw the little, rotund woman, and she scowled at them.

“Shut up, you drongos!! Or do you want me to come over there and slap you silly??”

Both men fell silent instantly.

Reid smirked to himself. These villains, whoever they were, obviously had no idea who they were dealing with when they encountered Effie McFee.

Soapy and Jo made their old friend welcome, and the rest of the day was taken up with coming to terms with what had happened, and giving their accounts of the past few days. Reid was also introduced to the young American, who went by the name of Nat Bonney*, who had helped Soapy and Charlie deal with the intruders.

Reid found he liked this young man, lying in his bed and with Effie sitting beside him watching over him. Bonney answered Reid’s questions as honestly and as thoroughly as he could, given his injuries.

Soapy and Jo had apparently picked him up after his motorcycle had broken down. He was a veteran, something close to their hearts, and they said he could stay until his bike was fixed in return for helping around the station.

He had been around when the intruders had arrived, and done his best to protect the Munros. Charlie Jakkamarra backed up the statements. The only thing Reid couldn’t figure out was why these people had invaded Wapanjara in the first place.

The men Soapy, Bonney and Charlie had subdued didn’t say a thing. And, Reid concluded, probably never would. The whole thing stank of some kind of organised crime syndicate, and when Soapy told Reid the name of the man whose remains lay under a tarpaulin in the yards, Reid did a thorough search of the SUVs and found a haul of illegal weaponry. He had heard of Coetzee and his history, and it was obvious that some sort of deal, weapons probably, had been on the books. Wapanjara, a place in the back of beyond, had been a perfect meeting place.

The Munros and Effie had been lucky to survive.

Reid’s medical officer tried to get Nat Bonney to agree to go to hospital, but he refused. He was fine, he said, and when Reid looked at Effie, sitting in her rocking chair beside him and reading a cook book, he knew the American was in good hands.

When the whole thing was over, and Coetzee – or what was left of him – was removed and his men formally charged, the Munros and their people were left to themselves. There would be more to come, Reid informed them, and they would have to deal with being witnesses at the oncoming trials, but in the meantime, they were left in peace.

* * *

Eliot dozed. His chest hurt and his leg hurt, and he had a bump on the back of his head that ached like hell, but he was alive.

The warmth of the soft bed and blankets and Effie’s presence made him relax, and he was, at least for now, safe and sound.

His light sleep was interrupted by a soft gurgle.

“Gertie …” he whispered sleepily.

“She’s fine, Yank. Charlie found a few scrapes on her side and neck, but she’ll be alright,” Effie said quietly, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose as she studied her old cook book.

Another gurgle came from the open window, and a big head tried to peer in at Eliot.

“Hey girl …” Eliot murmured, and he heard Gertie grumble to herself, happy to hear his voice.

“Bloody thing,” Effie muttered. “Saved you and Mister M’s lives, she did.” She turned a page.

Eliot managed to turn his head to study Effie. The bedside light was on but the rest of the room was dark, shadows moving on the walls and the sound of the last of the season’s cicadas and Gertie’s burbling coming from the night outside. He saw the occasional bioluminescent flash of a firefly, the cold light trailing lazily through the cool evening air. All was quiet.

Effie lifted her cup of tea and had a sip, and then eyed Eliot.

“Want a drink? Some tea, maybe?”

Eliot thought about it.

“Mmmm …” he said, trying to shift in the bed and wincing as the stitches in the gash over his stomach pulled. “Sounds good.”

“Want to sit up?”

Eliot nodded.

“Yeah … I think so,” he added.

Effie put down her book and teacup, and heaved herself out of her chair.

“Don’t you move, you young shite, unless you want the Missus to tear you a new arsehole. She spent a long time putting in those stitches and if you burst even _one_ of ‘em –“

Eliot nodded and then wished he hadn’t as his head objected to the movement.

“Yeah, yeah … I’ll be careful –“

“Don’t be careful, Yank – _be still!_ ” Effie growled. “Mister M or Charlie will give you a hand. Be back in a minute.”

Eliot waited patiently and heard Effie rumbling about in the kitchen, and he thought about the bruises and cuts on her face, and once again he felt anger surge though him. _He_ had done this. _He_ had caused these people who had done nothing but help him be hurt and terrorised. Eliot closed his eyes and grimaced, disgusted with himself. He knew now he would _never_ be clear of the burden of his past.

But his thoughts were interrupted by Soapy wandering into the room and pulling up a chair.

Eliot gave him a wan smile.

“Hey, Soapy.” He studied the cut and black eye on the man’s face. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Soapy said, knowing full well what was going on in Eliot’s head.

Eliot shifted painfully.

“Bringin’ all this down on you,” he said softly.

“No worries, son. Shit happens. When you’re feeling more up to it, we’ll talk. Now … you just heal up. Effie’s in charge this time, so you _will_ rest.”

Eliot sighed, but knew Soapy was right. He needed to heal and get back onto his feet. Then he could decide what to do next.

“Effie says you want to sit up and you need a hand. So let’s get you comfy …”

Over the next fifteen minutes Eliot was propped up on pillows and then Effie brought him a mug of hot tea laced with honey and one of her scones oozing butter and jam.

Jo and Charlie joined them, bringing more tea and scones, and Eliot was suddenly in the midst of a family, warm and inviting and quiet. Soft murmurs of conversation and laughter warmed his chilled heart, and he felt as though he could stay like this, loved and wanted, for the rest of his life.

But then the conversation turned, as he knew it inevitably would, to the happenings of the past few days.

Eliot knew his alias would pass close inspection. Soapy had quickly found the pack of passports Coetzee had discovered amid Eliot’s clothes and shown them to the ex-soldier as Jo cleaned the wound in his leg. Eliot chose Nathaniel Bonney, Oklahoma-born, ex-US Navy and now a cook by profession. He was doing some world travel, and ended up in Australia. His cover was well-researched, impeccably supported and completely solid.

But Charlie was worried.

“Won’t those bastards tell the police who you are?”

Eliot finished his mouthful of scone and shook his head carefully.

“Nah. They work for Moreau. They know he’ll kill ‘em if they talk. If they mention me, they’ll have to mention Moreau. In fact …” he paused, wondering if he should say any more. He decided they needed to know. “ … there probably won’t even be a trial.”

Charlie glanced at Jo and Effie, and nodded, understanding.

“He’s going to kill them in prison, isn’t he?”

Eliot’s smile was bitter.

“They probably won’t last a week. He doesn’t like loose ends and he doesn’t like failure.”

Effie buttered another scone.

“Works for me,” she growled, “and I hope the little shits suffer,” she added with relish.

They all sat in silence for a little while, and then Eliot yawned, unable to stop his eyes from closing in weariness.

“C’mon, old girl,” Soapy said to Jo, “it’s been a hard few days. Let’s all get a good night’s sleep. It’s over, right?” he asked Eliot.

“Yeah,” Eliot mumbled. “It’s over. He won’t trouble you again.”

“I’ll sleep on the veranda tonight though,” Charlie said, and then he grinned at Eliot. “It’s been one helluva day, mate!”

And then the young aborigine was gone, off to settle down and sleep under the stars.

So as Eliot finally allowed his eyes to close and the peacefulness fill his heart, Effie sat back in her rocking chair and began to read by the soft light of the lamp.

* * *

For the next few days Eliot stayed in bed. His temperature went up for a while, worrying the wits out of Jo who thought he was in for another bout of fever. But in the end rest, fluids and good food put a stop to it and Eliot began to respond. His temper shortened – which in Effie’s opinion was always a good sign – and he was eager to be back on his feet and get back to doing some work around Wapanjara.

And so ensued the battle of wills.

As soon as his appetite improved, Eliot wanted to get out of bed. He was sick of just lying there doing nothing, and Gertie – who was hanging around his window like a bad smell – didn’t help. She rumbled and complained and moaned, because, it seemed, she was as bored as Eliot.

Effie ignored both of them. She was a wall of indifference to their complaints and growling, and continued on her merry way stuffing Eliot full of as much food as he could manage. Without being able to work any of it off, he began to feel a little bilious.

So, he determined to escape. Unfortunately, having a screwdriver-shaped hole in his leg stopped him from getting very far, and Soapy’s old walking stick was mysteriously nowhere to be found.

When Effie discovered Eliot sitting on his bed struggling into an old pair of jeans and steadfastly ignoring her cursing and ranting, she called in reinforcements.

When Jo appeared, Eliot eyed both of them grumpily. Effie scowled.

“Missus, will you tell this young mongrel to get back into bed?? He’s going to burst his bloody stitches, so he is, and damn me if I’m going to wash blood out of his sheets again!”

Jo arched an eyebrow.

“She’s right, you know,” she said calmly, even as Effie and Eliot traded glares that would make strong men baulk. “Your leg’s not up to doing much yet, and –“

“Gettin’ up,” Eliot grouched, brows drawn down in annoyance.

“No you’re not, you daft bastard!” Effie raged, her eyes glittering dangerously. “Stay put – or else!”

“Or else what??” Eliot retorted, his blue eyes as cold as ice. “What’re you gonna do? Whup my ass? Huh? Or … or … cut my rations? ‘Cause that’s fine by me! I’ve kept goin’ on half a rat a day – _raw_ \- so doin’ without a lamington ain’t gonna kill me!”

Effie’s eyes narrowed.

Jo thought this was hysterically funny, but somehow managed to keep a straight face.

“Eliot … son … calm down, alright?” Her voice was sweetness itself. “I know you’re a bit fed up, but you weren’t all healed up when you got hurt again, and you’re not as strong as you think you are –“

“M’ strong enough to get out of this goddamn bed!” he growled, and tried to stand up to fasten his belt.

“Are you now?” Effie hissed, and then grinned nastily as Eliot discovered standing up wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

The stitched cuts on his chest and belly hurt like hell, and he suddenly felt woozy as he managed to stand shakily, his bad leg weak and sore. But he quelled the sudden feeling of nausea and smirked at Effie.

“See? I’m perfectly okay –“

Effie placed one finger on an undamaged part of Eliot’s chest and pushed, ever-so-slightly.

The sudden wobble was dramatic, and Eliot began to flail.

Both Jo and Effie caught him before he fell and damaged his stitches, and they lowered him back onto the bed.

Eliot was furious with himself.

“ _Dammit_ , Effie! I only want – “

“What you _want_ and what you _get_ , you stubborn bugger, are two different things! If you didn’t have a bump on your head the size of an emu egg I’d bloody biff you! I couldn’t give a brass razoo if you want to get up, laddie! _Stay put!!_ ”

Somehow the dizziness didn’t go away as Eliot sat on the bed, and the sheer effort he had expended in merely standing up had exhausted him. So Jo guided him back on top of the covers, letting him relax against the pillows.

“Okay … a compromise. You can stay dressed, and lie on your bed instead of in it. How’s that?” she said soothingly.

“Crappy,” Eliot said ungraciously, “but I guess I’ll have to deal with it.”

Effie straightened and crossed her arms triumphantly.

“Abso-bloody- _lutely!_ ” she crowed.

Eliot lay back and sulked.

* * *

As soon as Effie deemed him fit to be out of bed, Eliot exacted his revenge and settled himself in the kitchen and proceeded to drive the little cook crazy.

First of all, he sat and drank interminable mugs of tea, ate like there was no tomorrow, and began to make suggestions about her recipes.

She threatened him with a dose of ipecac if he didn’t shut his gob, and then – careful of his healing wounds – told him to make himself useful peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables.

After a week, he said he was bored. So he gimped through to Effie’s store-room, even as she threatened to wallop him with her broom, found some avocados, tomatoes, limes and a pinch of Soapy’s hellaciously hot chili pepper and made a salsa.

Effie, begrudging but curious, made a couple of suggestions regarding seasonings, and between them they presented it that morning along with the perennial steak and eggs.

After the uniform success of the salsa, Effie discovered the cheeky little bastard was actually a pretty good cook, and what’s more, Eliot was a fellow enthusiast when it came to food.

Effie taught him to make lamingtons, and he showed her his momma’s recipe for pecan pie. Effie told him it wasn’t too bad, and then hid the last slice so she could eat it before bedtime.

Eliot made beef quesadillas, and Effie produced pavlova, this time with Eliot’s delicious raspberry sauce.

Jo and Soapy just smiled and smiled and ate whatever the pair of them came up with, and were happy that Eliot finally seemed to be content.

* * *

Life became calm, ordinary routine.

Eliot healed and became what, for him, was breathtakingly normal. He mended fences, and helped the crew ear-tag calves. He learned to use a stock whip, and spent long hours in the saddle or in the ute, checking waterholes and fixing the bores.

In the evening he ate at the homestead with Charlie and the Munros, often helping Effie cook. During his time off he hung out with Gertie, riding her over the station, learning the lie of the land, and he discovered the secret creeks and the hidden, wondrous places where he could sit and read. Gertie lay beside him, chewing her cud or with her head and neck stretched out on the ground, dozing and twitching in the afternoon balm.

As weeks passed, he began to accompany Soapy and Jo on their bi-monthly trip to Tennant Creek.

It was the only contact with the outside world he had, and he was content to leave it at that for now. People were kind, especially when the ‘incident’ at Wapanjara became common knowledge, and he was treated with respect. The Munros were much-loved, and this ‘Yank’ who had helped them was obviously a decent bloke.

While Soapy and Jo ran their errands and Jo visited friends, Eliot would check his bank accounts and purchase things he needed. He ordered new pads for Gertie’s saddle, and he also spent a lot of time in the little book store, replenishing Soapy and Jo’s collection of books.

His last chore of the day was visiting the local eatery.

On this winter’s day, he was looking forward to a hot coffee, and then he would await Jo and Soapy for lunch. Opening the door he wandered in, and was greeted by the owner.

“G’day, Yank!” she called out, a smile on her lined face. He was fast becoming one of her favourite customers.

Eliot raised a hand in greeting.

“Hey, Maisie! How’s it goin’?” he smiled at her, and then slid into his regular booth. Laying his purchases on the bench seat beside him, Maisie appeared at his side.

“The usual? I’ve got some of that mixed berry meringue tart you like.”

Eliot smiled up at Maisie.

“Maybe for dessert. Soapy an’ Jo will be in later for somethin’ to eat. Just a coffee for now, thanks.”

“No worries,” Maisie grinned back. “I’ll get that organised for you, love.”

Off she went, and Eliot slid off his jacket and brought out his burner ‘phone. Scrolling through messages and voicemail, he discovered there were only a couple of calls, both from contacts offering him work.

But after listening to the messages, he grimaced. Both were for contract hits. His contacts didn’t exactly come out and say it, but Eliot knew how to read between the lines. It meant killing people. _No more_ , he thought. _You have enough blood on your hands to last a life time, Spencer. You’re drenched with it_.

Deleting the calls after texting refusals, he switched the ‘phone off and tucked it in his pocket. He smiled his thanks to Maisie as she set his coffee down in front of him, and then he lifted his package of books and choosing one, he dug out his spectacles from his breast pocket and began to read.

Deep into discovering all about the battle of Agincourt as he sipped his coffee, he heard the door to the eatery open and close. He took no notice until he sensed someone sliding into the seat opposite him.

Eliot took a deep breath and smiled. He had known it was only a matter of time. He spoke without looking up.

“Hello, Damien,” he said.

 

To be continued …

* * *

**Author’s note:**

*Nathaniel ‘Nat’ Bonney – Eliot’s alias is taken from one of Arthur Upfield’s books, ‘Bony and the Kelly Gang,’ used by the legendary Detective Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte – ‘Bony’ – Upfield’s brilliant half-aborigine detective, and one of my favourite literary characters.


	19. We are Fighting With Fate

“Eliot Spencer. You’re looking … _different_ ,” Damien Moreau said.

Eliot waited for a moment, taking control of the situation, and then idly looked up from his book. Smiling, he put a napkin in the page to mark his place, and then closed the book and sat back in his seat.

“Things change,” he said quietly.

Moreau looked exactly the same, Eliot decided. Smart, elegant, stylishly dressed … _nothing_ had changed. His handsome face was as charming as ever … _the smile on the face of the tiger_ , Eliot thought.

“So … how are you?” Moreau asked.

Eliot shrugged.

“Same-old, same-old,” he quipped, and took a sip of his coffee. As always, Maisie’s coffee was very good.

“I heard you ran into a bit of trouble in Darwin,” Moreau commented. “Got yourself hurt. I hope you’re feeling better now … back to full strength. You look very healthy, I have to say. Tanned, even.”

Eliot’s smile widened.

“Yeah. Good food, honest work, nice people … _decent_ people,” he added.

Maisie appeared at his elbow.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked Moreau, who gave her a flashing smile.

“Oh, yes … I hear your peach and raspberry pavlova is to die for. May I have a portion with some Earl Grey tea?”

Maisie blushed with pleasure and hurried off to fulfil the order, while Eliot shook his head, amused.

“So, Damien … down to business. What do you want?”

His gaze turned to the street outside, and saw two well-dressed men sitting on the bench under a stringybark. They looked bored. One of them seemed familiar, and then Eliot remembered. _Chapman_. Another South African. _What was it with Moreau and South Africans_ , he wondered.

Moreau gave Maisie another brilliant smile, his brown eyes crinkling with good humour as she set down a pot of tea with milk and sugar, a cup and saucer, and a generous helping of pavlova.

“Thank you, my dear. That pavlova looks _ravishing_ ,” he added. As Maisie wandered away, he turned his smile on Eliot. “I’m just passing through,” he said, and then took a forkful of pavlova and tasted it. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “This _is_ ravishing,” he said with obvious pleasure. He savoured the mouthful, swallowed, and then continued. “I have business in Adelaide, so I thought I would travel by train for a change and call in to see an old friend,” he added.

“Ex-employee, Damien. _Never_ a friend,” Eliot murmured.

Moreau ate another forkful of pavlova before answering.

“You killed Coetzee,” he said, coming straight to the point.

Eliot’s eyes were dangerously calm.

“Technically, I didn’t. He just got in the way of a seriously pissed-off bull.”

“Details, details,” Moreau dismissed Eliot’s comment. “But that’s moot. I came to ask you something.”

Eliot took another sip of his coffee.

“And what would that be?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

Moreau dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and then poured himself a cup of tea.

“Come back and work for me,” he said.

Eliot stared steadily at Moreau for a moment before answering.

“Now, why would I want to do that?”

“Oh, c’mon, Eliot … you know why. You were … _are_ … the best man I ever had. Having you in my employ makes my life _so_ much easier.”

Eliot shook his head ruefully.

“Well, if you keep sendin’ people after me, you won’t have that many employees _left_ , huh,” he said.

Moreau finished his pavlova and hitched a shoulder.

“Well, there is that too,” he replied. “But I can easily get more. It’s only a matter of time, my friend. You are, after all, only one man, no matter how deadly.”

Eliot turned his coffee cup in his fingers, looking at the art deco pattern around the rim. He pursed his lips.

“No,” he said. The word had a ring of finality to it.

Moreau pondered Eliot’s answer for a second as he poured more tea.

“Why not? It’s common sense. Good pay … good conditions … I’ll even make you head of my security team. It was good enough for you then … why not now? What changed?”

Eliot looked out of the window at Chapman and his colleague.

“I told you when I left, Damien. I’m done.” He put down his coffee cup and studied his hands. “These have enough innocent blood on them, and there won’t be any more.”

Moreau frowned.

“So you meant it? You left because you suddenly gained a _conscience?_ Since when did Eliot Spencer have a conscience? You did things when you were in the army that were just as … shall we say … questionable? Why is working for me any different?”

“It isn’t,” Eliot said. “I _always_ had a conscience, Damien. It’s just I ignored it in the army because I thought I was protectin’ my country, and then I ignored it because it was too … _difficult_ … to deal with it. But workin’ for you … it just made ignorin’ my conscience impossible in the end because I did things for you that would make any decent person’s skin crawl with disgust. An’ I finally disgusted myself. So to answer your question … no, I’m not comin’ back.”

Moreau digested the information and drank his tea, thinking Eliot’s reply through. He sighed.

“So, Eliot … where do we go from here? What do you think I should do? Because you know I don’t let anyone go. Once with me, _always_ with me. It’s common sense and good business practice. If you leave, you’re a dangerous loose end, you know that. The past months should have told you _no-one_ leaves, and when you disappeared it just made sure of my reaction.”

Eliot’s smile turned grim.

“Well, looks like I’m gonna set a precedent, then. ‘Cause I’m not comin’ back, and I’ll deal with anyone and everyone you send after me. _Permanently_.”

“You _hope_ ,” Moreau said insistently.

“I _promise_ ,” Eliot countered.

“What will make this go away, Eliot? Because you know it won’t _. I_ won’t. More will come, and more _innocent_ people will be hurt … even die, because of your decision. And that is a certainty, my friend. You know that.”

Eliot studied Moreau’s face. He knew the man meant every word. The dark eyes flashed in the handsome face, the face that despite its charm and good looks always had a hint of cruelty about it if you looked hard enough and knew the signs.

“Because,” Eliot replied, his voice soft and gentle, “if you don’t stop, I will _end you_.”

The two men stared at one another over the melamine table top in this small eatery, located in a small town in the endless landscape of the Australian outback.

Moreau appeared relaxed, his face benign and accepting.

But Eliot knew better. He could almost feel the thrum of tension in the man.

“And how, exactly, would you do that?” Moreau said calmly.

Eliot leaned forward and rested his hands flat on the table, and looked into Moreau’s dark, deadly gaze.

His reply was simple.

“Grigori Alexeyevich Kalyagin.”

Eliot had never seen Damien Moreau rattled, and on the surface the man seemed relaxed and enjoying his tea. But there was a split-second when Eliot saw the tic in the man’s right eye. When he finally spoke, there was just a hint of strain in his voice.

“Grigori and I … we have an arrangement.”

Eliot quirked his mouth, nodding in agreement.

“Oh, oh yeah, I know. I was in Lutsk with you when you two met, remember?” He finished his coffee, and looked into the empty cup with a little regret. “Nice place, Lutsk. It has a puppet theatre and everything.”

Eliot remembered the meeting with Kalyagin in the ancient town of Lutsk in western Ukraine. The powerful and dangerous oligarch was deep in grief for the loss of his only child … his son, daughter-in-law and his seven-year-old grand-daughter, all killed after being hit head-on by a gas truck.

The explosion and ensuing fireball had taken out the windows of every building in the area, and the truck driver and Kalyagin’s family were vaporised.

But business was business, and Moreau needed the Ukrainian’s access to underground smuggling routes through what was once the old eastern bloc. There was a burgeoning trade in new drugs sources and missing soviet military hardware, and Kalyagin had a cast iron grip on the whole system. Moreau knew he could make millions.

The loss of the man’s family had meant Kalyagin was weak. His thoughts were elsewhere … he was distracted and open to Moreau’s offer of an alliance. It had worked out to be very profitable indeed.

Eliot placed his cup back on the table and gazed at Moreau.

“Kalyagin knows,” he said.

Moreau’s mouth twitched.

“Knows what? He and I have a very profitable association. There’s nothing to know.”

“He knows that his family was murdered. He also knows who did it,” Eliot said. “Kinda,” he added almost as an afterthought.

A muscle along Moreau’s jaw jumped, and then he was still, his demeanour calm and relaxed.

“Well, that’s terrible,” he said softly. “The poor man.” He frowned. “So … who were these people who did such an awful thing?”

Eliot looked curiously at Moreau.

“Well, that’s the interesting part. Kalyagin found out who they were a couple of weeks ago and dealt with them. Wasn’t pleasant, I found out. There were three of ‘em. They didn’t break though. Kalyagin has no idea who ordered the hit, but he made ‘em pay for what they did. Somethin’ to do with hacksaws, I think. But …” he brightened, “Grigori’s put feelers out. He’s on the hunt.”

“Interesting,” Moreau said. “I hope he finds the bastard who did it. I take it the reward is a good one?”

“Oh yeah,” Eliot agreed. “In the _millions_. Money’s no object, apparently. He wants whoever ordered their deaths, preferably alive, but hey – he would take a head at a pinch.”

“A … _a head?_ ”

“Yeah … to go with the others. As long as there’s proof, he’d be satisfied. Y’know,” Eliot added, “it would feel _really good_ to give the man some peace. To lose your family like that … it’s just friggin’ shitty. They killed a seven-year-old girl, for Christ’s sake. Those three bastards deserved what they got.”

“True … true,” Moreau agreed.

“But I got other things to do,” Eliot continued. “Get my life back. I might not follow it up, even though I’ve been contacted about the hit. Although … I _do_ have a couple of leads.”

The two men sat and looked at each other for long moments, until Maisie drifted by and asked if Eliot wanted more coffee. He nodded, and as she refilled his cup, Eliot studied Moreau, noticing the tense shoulders and tapping forefinger on the table top.

“What do you want, Eliot?” Moreau ground out, as Maisie left to attend to another customer.

Eliot ran his fingers though his hair, now grown long enough to brush his collar.

“Leave me alone. That’s all.”

“That’s all??”

Eliot shrugged.

“Yeah. That’s all. Leave me alone. Me an’ mine. Do that, and nothin’ will happen. I leave you to your business, keep off your radar and we stay away from one another.”

He drank his coffee and slipped the book back into his package.

“Look … Damien … make your mind up. I got things to do.”

Moreau gestured at Maisie, who was beside their table in an instant.

“Could I have my bill please, and could you box up some of that delicious pavlova for me? It really _is_ ravishing!”

“Absolutely!” she grinned, delighted.

Moreau stood up and smiled down at Eliot.

“I have a train to catch. The Ghan … you should try first class. It’s sublime! Eliot … have a good life, old friend. We won’t meet again. Never the twain shall meet, so it’s said. I’ll tell my people that retirement suits you.”

He nodded his farewell, and paying his bill and collecting his boxed pavlova from a blushing Maisie, he opened the door to leave. But he stood by graciously, holding the door open, as Soapy and Jo entered and smiled their thanks at his good manners.

“My pleasure!” he said to Jo, who blinked at this tall, good-looking man with the east-European accent.

And then he was gone, gesturing at his men to follow him as he headed towards the railway station. For a moment Chapman turned and gazed at Eliot through the window. Eliot grinned, waggled his fingers in farewell and watched as Chapman sneered and then followed Moreau into the distance.

Jo sidled into the seat opposite Eliot as Maisie came to clear away the tea and empty plate.

“What a nice man!” Maisie gushed. “And a good tipper too! Old friend of yours?” she asked Eliot.

Eliot shook his head.

“Nah … just a distant acquaintance. He noticed me and came in for a chat.”

“Well,” Maisie said, “He can come again! Lovely bloke, so he is!” And off she went, chuckling to herself.

Soapy watched her go and then studied the three men walking towards the station. As they disappeared he sat down beside Jo, who was studying the menu.

“Hey guys … lunch is on me,” Eliot grinned.

Jo raised her eyebrows at Eliot’s good humour.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, smiling back at him.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Eliot replied. “It’s just lunch. Let’s eat!”

And the three of them settled down to a quiet meal, full of humour and love and teasing, and only once did Soapy look back towards the railway station and wonder about the tall man in the smart suit.

* * *

That evening Eliot sat in the living room at Wapanjara, gazing into the flickering flames of a log fire. Winter evenings, although not freezing, could be cool and the fire was welcome.

The encounter with Moreau made him feel that he was now at a crossroads. The threat regarding Grigori Kalyagin had shaken Moreau badly and from Eliot’s point of view was very, _very_ real. If Moreau even looked at him funny, Eliot thought, he would happily deliver Moreau’s head on a silver platter to the grieving oligarch. But … if Moreau left him alone, then he would stay out of Moreau’s way. A tenuous, fragile balance, but a workable one.

Eliot sighed and watched the dancing, ethereal flames licking over the old bricks surrounding the grate.

He had to admit he was tired. Tired beyond belief. He wished he could sleep and sleep and sleep, and let the stress wash away and let the promise of a real future take hold in him. But he had work to do in the morning, and Charlie needed him. Eliot smiled to himself. All he had to worry about was repairing some old fencing. He would work and sweat and cuss, the wire would prick his fingers despite the heavy work gloves and he would drink tea and eat Effie’s sandwiches, and he would be content.

“It’s been a long day, mate,” Soapy said as he settled into his old, battered-but-comfy armchair and set down two mugs of tea on the little table between them. “Want to talk about it?”

Eliot suddenly snapped out of his reverie and glanced at Soapy, and then checked to see if Jo and Effie were about. He could hear the little cook cursing at Charlie as the young man tried to snaffle ginger cake from behind her back. He could make out Jo’s voice as she giggled like a young girl at their antics.

“Talk about what?” Eliot asked, although he knew exactly where this was going.

“Moreau,” Soapy said, and sipped his tea. “Drink up, son. Effie put honey in it for you. She says you’re looking a bit wonky round the edges.” Soapy sighed. “You look alright to me, but … you know Effie …”

Eliot smirked.

“Yeah … she seems to think I’m permanently crook for some reason.”

Soapy snorted.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been hurt or laid up or bleeding all over the place more or less since you got here, so … it’s better to humour her, hey?”

Eliot lifted his tea and took a swallow, humming at the warm, honeyed flavour. Effie knew how much he loved honey.

Savouring his drink, he turned his gaze back to the fire.

“Yeah … Damien Moreau. You noticed.”

Soapy nodded.

“Yes. I saw you both through the window of Maisie’s place for a moment or two. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and who else would be talking to you who isn’t from around here?”

Eliot sighed again.

“Does Jo know?”

“Of course she does! She saw him first, and guessed right away.”

“Damn …” Eliot murmured. He took a deep breath and continued. “There’s no danger, Soapy. It’s all over. We came to an … _arrangement_ , I suppose you could call it.”

Soapy pursed his lips.

“It must’ve been quite a threat to make him back off, boy. And don’t worry – I don’t want to know. As long as it’s over and you’re safe … that’s all that matters to us.”

Eliot and Soapy sat in silence for a little while as the younger man let his muscles loosen and his heart stop thumping. It was then he asked the question that had bothered him ever since he first came around from the devastating fever that had almost killed him.

“Soapy … why me? Why did you take me in?”

Soapy grinned.

“Well, for a start I’m not in the habit of leaving injured people out in the bush to die – especially after I’ve hit them with the ute!”

Now it was Eliot’s turn to snort.

“Yeah … well … I get that. But almost from the start you knew what I did – what I _was_. So … why? Why didn’t you just tell me to leave once I was on my feet?”

Soapy drank more tea and thought about how to answer.

“Because … because you were just like me, Eliot.”

Eliot’s eyebrows shot up and he gazed at his friend.

“Like you?” he said, puzzled. “Charlie told me you were with special forces, but –“

Soapy suddenly put down his tea and stood up. Pulling up his shirt on the right side, he revealed his stomach and ribcage. The flesh was deeply scarred … pitted and riddled with lines of knobbly tissue from badly-stitched wounds.

“ _Jesus …_ ” Eliot swore. “How –“

“Somalia, 1992. I was doing black ops … dealing with armed rebels who were busy having a little war of their own. The SDM fractured along tribal lines, and the killing was … well, let’s say it was _thorough_.”

Eliot’s memories suddenly clicked into place. Sierra Leone … Iran, Afghanistan, Croatia … so many deaths …

“I was a sniper,” Soapy continued as he tucked his shirt back into his pants. “Like you.”

Eliot frowned.

“How –“

“Charlie saw your scope.” The wiry pastoralist sat back down and lifted his mug of tea, taking a sip. “I have fifty-two confirmed kills, and probably more than that over the years during skirmishes and so on.” Soapy looked Eliot square in the eye. “I killed men, women and children. I had them in my scope, I took a deep breath, squeezed the trigger and killed them. I remember killing a girl of about seven because she was rigged with explosives and heading towards my team. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Eliot was dumbfounded.

“So –“

“So when I came home, Eliot, I was a numb, skilled killing machine, and I came home to run Wapanjara after my dad died. I came home to Jo, and I suddenly had to deal with normal people, and I failed miserably. I nearly died. I nearly died because I had my dad’s old Webley in my mouth and I was about to pull the trigger. If Jo hadn’t …” Soapy took a deep, shaky breath. “If my girl hadn’t stopped me … well then, I wouldn’t have seen that look in your eye when we found you. That wild, cornered look that I used to see in the mirror every day. Jo saw it too. So _that’s_ why, boy. That’s why you’re here at Wapanjara, and why this will always be your home if you want it.”

And as Soapy settled back in his chair, Eliot felt his heart leap with hope, and his mind spiral down into despair.

He had a home here at Wapanjara with people he loved and who loved him, but he knew he couldn’t stay, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

To be continued …


	20. Songs of Long Ago

* * *

Jo sat on the veranda on this late winter evening as the sun crept towards the horizon. A dry, balmy breeze tickled through the trees, and she sipped her tea as she saw Charlie and Eliot wander around the side of the house after a long day’s work, their stock whips curled and hung over one shoulder.

They were laughing at something, and Jo smiled to see them both so settled and happy. Eliot tucked the cuffs of his work gloves into his back pocket and took off his stockman’s hat as he walked up the veranda steps.

“Hey, Jo!” he called out, and her smile widened into a happy grin as she nodded back.

Her boys … her two boys, the sons she and Soapy never had. But even as Eliot disappeared into the house to wash up after a hard day, her smile faded.

Jo Munro knew Eliot would leave. She just didn’t know when. She took a deep breath and mentally shook herself. He was here now, and she and Soapy would just have to treasure the time they had left with him, and just know that he would be gone from their lives sooner rather than later.

Family flew the nest, she knew that. The problem was that this particular member of her family had only just got here, and had somehow made himself a part of Wapanjara … a part of her, and a part of Soapy. Charlie thought of Eliot as a brother, and she knew the feeling was mutual. Effie … well, who knew what Effie thought, but Jo _did_ know the little cook, in her own grouchy, bad-tempered way, doted on the American.

But Jo would deal with it, as would everyone else, when the day came. She just prayed it wouldn’t be too soon.

* * *

Supper was a quiet affair that night. Eliot changed into clean clothes and wandered through to the kitchen to help Effie, something he loved to do. He had marinated a rack of lamb before going out to work that morning, and Effie had produced a dinner to die for, with Effie’s delectable brandied peaches with home-made ice cream for dessert.

They all ate on the veranda, Soapy making plans for weaning calves and longer plans for heading west towards the Tanami, to check the distant fence line there. But as Eliot brought through coffee for everyone, Charlie sat up straight in his chair and took a deep breath.

“I’ve … I’ve got something to say,” he said in a rush. He looked as nervous as hell, Eliot thought.

Soapy exchanged glances with Jo and had to suppress a smirk.

“So … tell us before you do yourself a mischief, Charlie, for goodness sake!” he teased.

Charlie looked at these people he regarded as a second family.

“Okay … okay, here goes …” he took another gulping breath before coming out with whatever was bothering him. “I … um … I’m getting married. There. I said it,” he gasped, relieved and nervous at the same time. “Alice said yes,” he added, the wonder in his voice unmistakeable.

There was silence for long moments as everyone stared at Charlie.

“Well,” said Effie, putting down her coffee cup, “about bloody time! You took long enough to ask her, you daft bastard!”

Charlie was suddenly swamped by questions and slaps on the back from Eliot and Soapy, and Jo just couldn’t stop grinning.

The young aborigine had loved Alice Napangardi since he was a boy. The young _Warlpiri_ girl had grown into a talented artist, and was also a staunch member of local groups promoting the rights and culture of the indigenous members of tribes throughout the Barkly area. She was intelligent, kind, and loved Charlie Jakkamarra to bits.

“We thought about next year for the wedding … during the spring.” Charlie said shyly. “Here on Wapanjara, if that’s okay.”

Jo nodded vigorously. “Your families … everything’s alright with them?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlie said. “No familial problems, that sort of thing. Our folks never promised us to anyone else when we were nippers, so we’re in the clear.”

Jo understood the complex structure of kinship obligations and taboos within the sophisticated tribal structures, so she was relieved that there wouldn’t be any issues.

“We’ve decided to go white-fella style and get the registrar to marry us, but the aboriginal bit of it … well, could we have the celebration here? Alice loves this place and it would mean a lot to both of us.” Charlie said enthusiastically.

Soapy put out his hand and Charlie shook it.

“We’d be honoured,” he said, delighted.

And for the rest of the evening, they all chatted and laughed and planned, and Eliot wondered how he would tell them all he was leaving.

* * *

The offer had arrived via voicemail the previous week while Eliot sat in his usual booth at Maisie’s eatery. It was a simple retrieval job, but it was very well paid and would be a good start to Eliot’s foray back into the world beyond Wapanjara.

He had provisionally accepted it, but the client wasn’t in too great a hurry and wanted the best. Eliot’s contact had assured the client that Eliot Spencer _was_ the best. _In the world_. Eliot thought the claim a bit over-blown, but _what the hell_ , he thought. It didn’t involve killing, it was a sort-of-legal commission and he felt as though it was the right thing to do at this point in his life.

Now all he had to do was explain to the Munros, Effie and Charlie his reason for leaving Wapanjara, the people he loved and the place he regarded as his home.

And, of course, there was Gertie.

Eliot sighed. This was going to break his heart and be _friggin’ awful_.

* * *

He told them over breakfast the next morning.

Jo slumped back in her chair.

“When?” she asked quietly.

“Ten days from now,” Eliot replied. He was struggling to keep the emotion from his voice.

“Do you have to do this, son?” Soapy asked, his black eyes soft with concern.

Eliot finally looked straight at these people who had saved his life and helped him beyond measure. He owed them so much, and he felt … hell, he couldn’t even begin to tell them how he felt, but he had to try.

“Yeah … yeah, I think I do. It was somethin’ _you_ said, Soapy – remember, when we talked, you told me how hard it was dealin’ with the world an’ how Jo saved you.”

Jo looked at Soapy, and her strained face softened into a smile.

“You told him,” she said, and reached out to squeeze her husband’s hand.

“And I’m damn’ glad he did,” Eliot added, “because until then I had no idea what I was doin’. I needed some focus … some way of gettin’ to grips with what I was … what I _am_.”

“But you’re not that person any more, boy –“ Jo began, puzzled.

“Jo … Jo, I’m still the killer you picked up off the side of the road an’ patched up and tried to make whole again.” He laid his hands on the kitchen table. “I’ll tell you what I told Moreau … I’ve got blood on my hands I can never … _never_ … clean off. Innocent people’s blood. If I stay …”

Soapy and Jo waited for him to continue, because they saw the hurt and despair in his eyes and the determination in his heart.

“If I stay here … I’m hiding. Hiding from myself. You know me by now … I have to look the world in the eye an’ try and figure out who I am an’ face _what_ I am. Plus I always have that worry in the back of my mind that I might bring more trouble down on you. I got a price on my head in three countries, an’ I’m pretty damn’ sure I got a _Fatwā_ against me from my black ops days, so … God only knows what could happen.”

Neither Soapy nor Jo had an immediate answer to that, so silence reigned for a minute or so until Effie stumped in with her own breakfast. She also had a wooden spoon in her hand, which she used to whack Eliot hard on the shoulder as she went past him.

“OW!!” he yelped, and rubbed the assaulted muscle. “What the hell was that for??” he demanded, glaring at Effie as she sat down.

“Because you’re a bloody idiot, that’s why, you young galah! Don’t you know we reckoned you’d leave sooner rather than later?” Effie returned Eliot’s glare, and then turned the spoon around and poked him in the ribs non-too-gently with the handle.

“ _Dammit_ , Effie!! Stop it, will ya?? That frikkin’ _hurts!_ ”

Effie ignored him and tucked into her scrambled eggs.

“Daft bugger …” she muttered under her breath between bites.

“You knew???” Eliot asked, rubbing his ribs.

“Well … we guessed,” Soapy said quietly. “What are you going to do??”

Eliot, relieved a little, explained more about the commission.

“It’s retrieval – and don’t worry, I’ll be fine, before you begin fretting. Belgrade, Serbia. And then … I don’t know. I gotta get back out there an’ make my own way for a while. Make my own decisions about what I do an’ where I’m headed for a change. I ain’t done that in over a decade.”

Jo nodded reluctantly.

“But you’ll come home to us, though, right?”

Eliot smiled … a warm, soft smile which lit up his blue eyes and made the laughter lines appear at the corners.

“Jo … this is the only home I’ve had since I was eighteen years old. And I think this will be the only _real_ home I’ll _ever_ have. I haven’t spoken to my folks in years because of what I do … _did_ ,” he corrected himself. He knew in his heart he wasn’t that man any more. “But … I’ve got all of you. Even this crabby ol’ lady,” he added scowling good-naturedly at Effie, who grunted non-commitally. “I’ll come back … that I promise.”

Soapy took a deep breath and nodded.

“I see where you’re coming from, mate. But we have you for another ten days, right? So you make the most of it, son.”

Jo stood up and decided more tea was needed, so she gathered up cups and the teapot on a tray and headed back to the kitchen. But as she passed Eliot, she stopped, leaned over, and kissed him on the top of his head.

“Come home to us, Eliot, when you can,” she whispered, love for her boy in every word.

Straightening, she headed into the kitchen, and Eliot looked out over the beauty of Wapanjara and knew this was where his heart lay.

* * *

When Eliot told Charlie he was leaving, the young aborigine was uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the day.

Eliot let him be, but as they finished their work loading fat bullocks onto the big transporter which took the animals to Alice Springs, Charlie cocked his head at Eliot and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“You’ll be home for the wedding, right?”

“C’mon, man, I’ll be back. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, an’ I’ll cook if you like. Effie an’ me … if that’s okay with you an’ your lady.”

Charlie looked relieved.

“Works for me, you crazy bastard! Listen … the old folks are on walkabout again – can’t seem to keep ‘em at home these days – and we’re having a corroboree. This one’s a bit more formal. Men’s business*. Would you come?”

Eliot was puzzled.

“That’s just for tribal members, right? Wouldn’t I be intruding?”

Nah,” Charlie said. “As long as you don’t mind a bit of singing and dancing, mate. We tell the old stories … talk about stuff and the old ways. Might mean stripping down to your undies and getting covered in clay, but hey … you’re Cherokee, right? You lot have old songs and you can get in touch with your inner whatever-it-is your people believe in.”

Eliot was a bit nonplussed, but nodded.

“Sure. When?”

“They’ll be at the old meeting place in three days, so we can join them then. Then we men go up onto _Karnanganja-Kiri_ to meet and sing.”

Eliot knew the place … a small escarpment which lay nearby, where the sky was unimpeded by trees and the horizon seemed to go on forever. He had been there only once, during one of what Charlie called his ‘walkabout days’ when he would ride Gertie through Wapanjara’s vast landscape.

The place overlooked the homestead a couple of kilometres away, and he had stood on a protruding rock reaching out over scree and sand, and peered into the distance. He thought he could have stayed there forever, gazing at the world laid out before him.

He found traces of ancient fires and mysterious arrangements of rocks, and as he hunkered down and studied the marks on the stones he had felt as though he was being watched.

Standing up and turning, he saw a rock face shadowed by an overhang, and walking closer, he suddenly realised he could see faces looking back at him, painted on the faded stone. They were ghostly faces of ancient men with spears and atlatls, and before them ran kangaroo and emu, crocodile and snake, and they hunted over this land they had inhabited for tens of thousands of years. And there, outlined in the red ochre that gave Wapanjara its name, were hands. Many hands … hands of men and women and children, left with their ancestors as the emblem of memory.

Eliot had looked at them in wonder, and then he quietly turned and rode Gertie back to the homestead. He realised he had intruded, uninvited as he was, and out of respect for the spirituality of the place he had never returned.

But now he would go back to _Karnanganja-Kiri_ , this time as a guest, and there he decided he would honour both his ancestors and these people who had welcomed him into their midst.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set when Eliot rode Gertie out into the bush and headed for the meeting place. He knew in his heart that this would be the last time he would be out here in this wilderness he had grown to love in all its guises, and he planned to head off on his own for a couple of days after the corroboree. To this end he had packed gear and food, and, bless her grumpy heart, Effie had slipped a small box of lamingtons into his pack.

He let Gertie wander along at her own pace, and Eliot just absorbed the sounds and smells of the world around him, closing his eyes and swaying to the rhythm of Gertie’s swinging stride.

The galahs and lorikeets were flocking in for their evening drink, chattering and calling, and in the distance he could hear the magpies fluting to each other in the almond stand. A gentle breeze rustled through the dry grass, and he heard Gertie mumbling to herself as she wandered along. He caught the hint of eucalyptus, and then the faint scent of water from the distant billabong, and Gertie burbled to herself as a haunting sound began from the far hills as a small pack of dingoes began their dusk howl. Then he heard something else, deep and throbbing and ancient, underneath the eerie sound of the dingoes.

Someone was playing a _didjeridu_ , the rhythmic growl and roar of the age-old wind instrument resonating through this equally ancient land, the notes sometimes thrumming so deep that Eliot felt the notes echo in his chest. He closed his eyes and listened to this strange, magical place which had taken hold of him, and he felt Gertie change direction slightly and her sedate pace turned into a trot.

And then came the laughter of children and the smell of roasting meat, and Eliot smiled.

* * *

The cold, clear winter sky glittered overhead, and Eliot sat around the roaring fire with Charlie’s large and noisy family. Eliot ate until he was sure his ribs were creaking, and he laughed as the children told stories and tumbled about. Gertie grumbled and gurgled with pleasure as the smaller ones crawled over her neck and fed her bits of damper they stole from under Auntie’s nose, and the old lady pretended to rage at them as they ran away shrieking.

But as the evening turned into deep, moonless night, Charlie disappeared. Eliot didn’t notice until a strange, pulsing noise whirred and sang from the escarpment above them, and Eliot looked up to see a figure faintly silhouetted against the star-mirrored sky, swinging what he knew was a bull-roarer, a ritual call to the adult men of the tribe.

The women and children grew quiet and turned away, and Charlie’s father stood up and took off his clothes until he was down to nothing but a belt with a _riji**_ suspended by a hair string. The other men did the same, and Eliot was encouraged to strip down to his shorts, his bare feet warm on the red earth. Eliot knew Charlie’s father was a revered elder and shaman, and Eliot stood still and proud as the old man touched the fresh scars on his torso and the old ones on his arm and shoulder. The Elder smiled.

“Come. Sing with us, _kukkaji_ ***,” he said quietly.

And so Eliot silently followed the group up a winding path to the escarpment where the ancestors watched and listened, and he sat through the night as the men danced and sang. The clap-sticks and _didjeridu_ beat a rhythm in Eliot’s heart and clay striped his face and torso, and for that one night he was Eliot Spencer of the _Aniwaya_.

It was then, as the sun rose over the horizon, he walked to the edge of the escarpment and he finally sang the song his grandfather had taught him … the song of The People, and he danced with the stamping beat of endless lives, and his soul soared with their presence and he welcomed the new dawn with a peaceful heart.

* * *

The following morning, Eliot said goodbye to Charlie and his family, and sitting astride Gertie, he turned her towards the lonely land before him and headed into the bush for his last walkabout before leaving Wapanjara.

 

To be continued …

* * *

 **Author’s notes** **:**

* Aboriginal societal and cultural structure can be gender-specific, and is very much a part of both traditional and modern life.

** ‘ _Riji_ ’ – pearl shells worn as pubic coverings, like a loin cloth, and attached with hairstring from a belt or band around the waist. Only men initiated to the highest degree could traditionally wear them. Although not really part of _Warumungu_ tradition, they were certainly traded between tribes as ritual objects.

*** ‘Kukkaji’ – _Warumungu_ word for ‘little brother’ or ‘younger brother’.  
 

 


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: 
> 
> Many, many thanks to everyone who has read, commented upon or left kudos for this story. It has been an utter pleasure to read and hear the reactions to it, as it was a bit of a leap of faith to write, with it being a rather strange Eliot-only tale and I wasn’t too sure if anyone would like it! 
> 
> Jo, Soapy, Effie, Charlie – and, of course, dear old gurgly Gertie, will return in GERTIE – THE OUTBACK JOB. And yes, there will be lamingtons, and much, much tea will be drunk.

* * *

Jo was finding it very difficult to concentrate on her crossword. Breakfast seemed strange without Eliot and Effie sniping affectionately at one another, and as Soapy finished his scrambled eggs and bacon, he studied his wife.

“We’ll have to get used to it,” he said after swallowing a mouthful of egg. “He’ll be gone in a few days, old girl.”

Jo didn’t react for a moment or two, but then she sighed and put down her pen.

“I know, love. And I know it won’t be forever, but he walks in a world I can’t even begin to understand and … oh, Soapy, what if he gets hurt?” Her voice finally broke. “What if he can’t get home to us, with no-one to take care of him and –“

“Jo … Jo, sweetheart … Eliot has been in situations that even I can’t think about and he’s survived. He’s experienced, one of the toughest men I’ve ever met, and he’s extremely intelligent. He’ll be okay, I’m sure. And what makes it easier for him now is knowing we’re here if he needs us. _Always_. And he needs to do this, you know that.”

Jo nodded reluctantly.

“Yes … I know.” She knuckled tears from her eyes. “But … oh, what’s the _use?_ Worrying won’t make anything better, will it? So … today. Worming the horses, right? I’ll give you a hand.”

Soapy regularly treated the horses for parasites with a liquid wormer.

“You sure?” he said quietly.

“God, yes,” Jo snapped. “Anything’s better than worrying myself silly. Anyway, it’s either that or spending the day filling out paperwork for livestock valuations. _Blech_ ,” she added, scowling.

Soapy grinned.

“Well then, that’s decided. C’mon, wife of mine. Let’s go worm horses.”

Jo looked at him and smiled shakily.

“Why, you old romantic, Soapy Munro. How can a girl resist?”

And putting away her crossword, she went into the house to put on her work boots.

Soapy’s grin faded. God, Eliot’s departure was going to be _tough_.

* * *

Eliot awoke from a deep sleep, wrapped cosily in his sleeping bag, Gertie snoozing beside him. He could hear her grumbling in her chest, a kind of Gertie-snore, he decided.

He lay there for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the bush and studying the clear, washed-blue of the sky. This was his last morning out here in the wilderness. The last full day he would spend alone here in his beloved outback with Gertie before taking his leave of Wapanjara and its people. His home. His _family_.

But even as he felt the desolation of leaving this place he loved, there was a new feeling in his heart. _Anticipation._ He knew now he needed to spread his wings and walk the world as Eliot Spencer, a man alone and in charge of his own destiny and _nobody’s_ killing machine.

 _Well_ , he thought, _it’s time to move. Get up, Spencer. The day’s a-wastin’_.

Crawling out of his sleeping bag and disturbing a sleepily grouchy Gertie in the process, he stretched and studied the little creek nearby. The day was cool yet, but warmth was quickly beginning to creep into the air and he knew it would be hot enough soon to make the day a pleasant one.

There was a chest-deep pool in the creek, the water clear and fresh, so he stripped off, the warming breeze tickling his bare skin, and wandered over to the water, walking slowly into the crystal-clear depths. The water was chilly, and his sucked in his breath as he submerged himself, the cold making his lungs constrict.

He floated and splashed and swam a little, and Gertie stood and honked at him from the edge of the water, but after a while he waded out of the pool, dripping, and sat in the sun to dry off.

Sitting on a rock as the sun warmed and dried him, Eliot ate a breakfast of cold meat and Auntie’s delicious wattlewood damper, finished off with a handful of wild passion-fruit. He had found the latter on a bush beside the creek, hidden from the winter weather and still having a few of the fruits left where the birds hadn’t found them. The fruit was over-ripe due to being out of season, but still sweet.

As he dressed he checked his healed wounds. The scars on his torso were now pink lines, and the hole in his leg was nothing but a small, knotted mark. His side still pulled at him sometimes. The wound had been deep and the infection had been insidious and, he now realised, would have been lethal had Jo not saved him with her medical skill and her sheer determination not to let him die. A good reminder, he thought, that his life was now his own. With her care and tender heart Jo Munro had made him a free man.

Lacing up his boots, he stood up, tidied up his campsite and settled himself astride Gertie. Turning her southwards, he touched his heels to her shoulders.

“C’mon Gertie,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Jo and Soapy sat on the veranda after a long, hot, grubby day. Soapy was nursing a bruised shoulder from being head-butted by a recalcitrant horse who found the anthelmintic wormer not to its liking, and Jo was just bone-tired. The crew had headed off to have an impromptu barbecue outside the barn, and although Soapy and Jo would normally join them, Jo was not feeling up to it, she said.

So there they sat, relaxing in one of the warmest days of this late winter, a fresh pot of tea between them. Effie wandered through with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and sat down on Eliot’s recliner.

She poured tea, adding milk, and settled back to gaze at the sunset, the sun blazing orange-red as it hovered just above the hills in the distance. None of them spoke.

Charlie was still spending time with his family, and wouldn’t be back for another couple of days, so they were on their own.

Effie sighed and sipped her tea. Soapy munched on a cookie, and Jo just brooded.

“Well … I suppose I’d better start dinner,” Effie muttered. “It’s not going to cook its bloody self.”

Heaving herself out of the recliner, she lifted her cup and was about to go back to the kitchen when she squinted, her eyes narrowing against the golden light of the sunset.

“About bloody time!” she said, scowling.

Jo looked up, and following Effie’s gaze, she shaded her eyes and looked into the distance. Her face broke into a relieved smile.

A shape, shimmering in the late afternoon haze and silhouetted against the light of the setting sun, strode purposefully towards them from the outback. A hand rose in greeting from the figure on the back of the big camel.

Eliot and Gertie had come home.

* * *

Eliot’s last three days at Wapanjara went by quickly … far _too_ quickly for Jo. Eliot tidied up his room and packed his meagre belongings. He spent a lot of time with Gertie, showing Charlie, now returned from family duties, how she liked to do things and how to work with her. The young aborigine and the big camel got on famously. Old Moke just stood and dozed and found the whole thing thoroughly boring.

On his last day, Eliot said goodbye to the Wapanjara crew. To them he was simply ‘Yank,’ no more, no less … the man who had saved their boss and the Missus and the grumpy old bint who cooked for them and whom they all adored. The Yank was a hard worker, and a thoroughly decent bloke all round, they decided. Eliot would be missed.

That night, Effie didn’t cook. Instead she sat at the dining table, waited on hand and foot by Eliot, who had decided it was his turn to cook for all of them. He had spent the afternoon preparing food and Effie was turfed out of her kitchen and told to relax. She had done enough for him, Eliot decided.

And, Effie mused as she ate, the cheeky young bugger was a bloody good cook.

Thick, juicy fillets of barramundi fried Oklahoma-style with Eliot’s home-made coleslaw and green tomato relish, hushpuppies with scallions, and his momma’s pecan pie with ice-cream for dessert. Effie was in heaven _._

After dinner, with everyone stuffed to the eyeballs with Eliot’s food, they settled down to talk. And talk they did. They spoke of plans for Wapanjara, and Charlie talked about his future with Alice Napangardi.

Soapy told Eliot and Charlie about how he and Jo had met, back when he was a young soldier and she a trainee midwife. Jo then said she had thought Soapy was a cheeky arse and Soapy thought Jo was snooty. It was, both agreed, love at first sight.

Eliot talked about the time he had been on a reconnaissance mission at night in Iraq and had slid down an embankment and straight through the rotten carcase of a dead mule. He hadn’t been able to get the stink out of his clothes for weeks, and he had spent a _lot_ of time on his own after that until the stench subsided.

But at long last it was time to sleep. Eliot had washed dishes and tidied up Effie’s kitchen, knowing if he didn’t she would head-slap him. _Hard_. With that done, he dried his hands and wandered back to the living room. Soapy sat on the sofa, gazing into the fire. Jo had her head on his shoulder and was almost asleep.

“I, uh … I’m gonna turn in,” Eliot said softly. “Got a long couple of days comin’ up.”

Charlie stood up, stretched and yawned.

“I’m knackered.” He said, grinning ruefully at Eliot. “Sleep tight, Yank,” he said.

“You too, man,” Eliot smiled back. “See you in the mornin’. All of you,” he added. And turning, he headed off to his room and shut the door quietly behind him.

Jo lifted her head from Soapy’s shoulder and blinked sleepily.

“Tomorrow’s going to be awful,” she said, and dragging herself to her feet she headed to bed.

Soapy continued to gaze at the fire.

Effie sat with her tea in one of the big old comfortable chairs and sighed, but said nothing.

“Effie … he’s going to be alright, isn’t he? I mean … we shouldn’t worry, right?” Soapy murmured.

Effie snorted.

“He’ll be fine, Mister M. Remember the night he arrived? I said he was a tough bastard and that he’d do alright, and he was bloody stuffed then … bleeding all over the place and as sick as poisoned dingo. He’s as fit as a butcher’s dog now, and he’ll be bonzer.” She finagled herself out of the chair and headed off to put her cup in the sink to be washed the next day. But she stopped in the doorway for a moment, and spoke without turning around. “Still, it doesn’t stop us worrying about the young mongrel, hey? If he gets himself hurt and turns up here again bleeding on the carpet I’m going to knock him bloody silly,” she swore, and then she stumped off to her kitchen. Soapy could have sworn he heard her sniffle.

Soapy sat for a long while, thinking about how their lives had changed. When Eliot left, would life go back to what it was before he had stumbled into their existence, a battered and hurt soul with no hope? Soapy smiled suddenly, his dark eyes warm with laughter. He doubted anything would ever be the same again. And, he knew, he was glad of it.

Stiffly easing himself to his feet, he headed finally to his bed.

* * *

The day dawned bright, beautiful, and with the crystal clarity that came with the first hint of spring. The air carried the scent of eucalyptus and the magpies chimed and fluted in the almond stand, much as they had the day Eliot Spencer had emerged from a life-threatening fever and found he still had a future.

Jo passed the open door to Eliot’s room, and saw that he had stripped the bed and remade it with fresh sheets and pillowcases, each bed corner folded with military precision and clinical efficiency. The space, Jo realised with a jolt, was now nothing more than a spare room, somewhere for the occasional visitor and nothing more. It was as though Eliot had never been there.

Instead she found his backpacks sitting beside the screen door on the veranda, and his now-repaired Ducati awaiting him in the yard, a newly-bought helmet perched on the seat.

Eliot was nowhere to be seen.

Jo stood for long moments and stared at the two backpacks. It wasn’t much, she thought, to show for a life. Eliot, as far as she was aware, had no other belongings. He had been a drifter, someone with no attachments, no responsibilities other than to himself. Now he had Wapajara, and he had people who cared about him … people who loved him for who and what he was. She hoped it was enough, and that he would be well and whole in his new life.

She suddenly heard a rumbling gurgle, and it made her smile, even though her heart was breaking.

Eliot was saying goodbye to Gertie.

* * *

“Hey, dumb-ass,” Eliot murmured as Gertie wandered over from the mulga tree to see him and get her breakfast carrot, Moke in tow.

Shutting the paddock gate behind him, he was suddenly assailed by Gertie’s gentle whiffles as she searched his pockets. Grumbling to herself, complaining about Eliot’s tardiness in producing the carrots she knew he had hidden about his person, she flapped her bottom lip and moaned.

“Oh, okay, okay … wait a minute …”

And Eliot pulled two carrots from his pocket, giving one to Moke and the other to Gertie, who inhaled it and chewed with relish.

Eliot scratched Gertie under her chin and smoothed his other hand over her velvet muzzle, and the huge camel began to hum with pleasure. Moke rubbed her head over Eliot’s back, hoping for another carrot.

“Well, darlin’, today’s the day.” For some reason Eliot didn’t want to acknowledge, his voice suddenly hitched, and Gertie’s sharp ears caught the change in tone. “I got places to go, people to see,” he continued, and Gertie mumbled at the fingers rubbing her muzzle. Her humming deepened, and Eliot smiled shakily. _Damn, he was hating this._ “So, you big, hairy bastard, you listen to me. You behave for Charlie, y’hear me? No complainin’, no … no whinin’ about how hard life is, and don’t you give him any crap about not gettin’ enough to eat or all that other stuff you bitch about.”

Gertie pricked her ears, listening.

Eliot pulled at her lower lip, and Gertie huffed. He only did that when he wanted her to do as she was told with no complaints.

“So, you just do right by him, girl. He’s a good guy … he’ll look after you, although you’ll have to work for a livin’, which to be honest isn’t a bad idea, you lazy ol’ critter.”

Gertie snorted indignantly. As if she would complain. She _never_ complained.

“Yes, you damn well _do_ ,” Eliot insisted, scowling.

Gertie pulled her head free and licked Eliot’s face.

“ _Dammit,_ Gertie!” he growled, wiping off saliva and goo, and then Gertie pulled out the Big Move, the one that Eliot couldn’t resist. She rested her enormous head on Eliot’s shoulder, and sighed gently. She just _had_ to tell him she loved him.

Eliot crumbled.

Flinging his arms around Gertie’s powerful neck, he buried his face in the wiry curls of her jaw.

She had saved his life. She had given him purpose, and she had given him focus. Gertie was his friend, and she protected him with her solid bulk and loyalty. She had looked out for him when he was hurting inside, and made sure he was safe as he lay bleeding and insensible as the mob of cattle broke around them and when Coetzee had tried to slide a knife into his guts.

 _God,_ how he would miss the overwhelming aroma of camel.

They stood quietly for long minutes, Gertie humming quietly and Eliot doing his best to control the pain in his chest.

But, in the end, he had to go. The future beckoned, and life went on.

Pulling away from Gertie’s warm, safe presence, he scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes and gave her a final scratch under the chin.

“Gotta go, sweetheart. You be good, and I’ll be back. I don’t know when, yet, but we’ll go bush when I get back, I promise. Look after Moke.”

And pulling away, he left the paddock and headed for the house. He did not look back.

* * *

Jo, Soapy and Effie were waiting for him. Eliot felt a slight pang of disappointment because there was no sign of Charlie, but, he decided, he would deal with it.

Jo walked forward and stood beside the Ducati, and as Eliot dug the motorbike keys out of his pocket, she smiled up at him and put a hand on his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart against her palm. He bottom lip quivered, but she controlled the emotion of it all and patted his chest.

“Now then, my boy, you be careful, alright? Try not to take any more risks than you absolutely have to, and you know where we are if you need us. Day or night … you call or … or … oh _hell_ , you just come home when you can. Call us and let us know how you are, and for goodness sake, Eliot, take care of yourself!”

Eliot reached around Jo and pulled her to him, hugging her as hard as he dared. This small, slender woman had saved his life when he thought he had nothing worth living for, and he loved her to bits.

“I will, Jo,” he murmured into her silvery curls, and he felt the tears dampen his shirt. “ _Aw hell_ , don’t start cryin’ … women and cryin’ … _jeez_ …” and Eliot tried not to sniff.

The pair of them stood there for a minute until Jo pulled herself together and let him go. She stood back and studied him. His blue eyes were clear and warm, and he had a healthy tan. He had put on weight and had filled out, his sturdy frame solid and strong. His dark hair was longer now, and would soon be able to be tied back in a ponytail. And the daft bugger was grinning through unshed tears.

“Just go, will you, before I turn into a mushy bloody mess!” Jo grumbled.

Eliot’s grin widened.

“Yes ma’am!” he replied.

Effie stumped forward and glared up at the American. Eliot warily waited for her to do something … say something … but all she did was raise her right hand. Eliot tried not to flinch, expecting a gentle head-slap, but instead Effie’s pudgy hand suddenly lay against his cheek.

Muddy eyes softened, and the little cook gave Eliot a crumpled smile.

“Listen to me, you young bludger,” she rumbled.

Eliot’s face became solemn.

“Yeah, Effie.” He said respectfully.

“You behave yourself, you hear me? You eat properly, and for goodness sake try to stay out of trouble. Although, knowing _you_ , trouble will bloody well find you, you silly bastard,” she added almost as an afterthought.

“Yeah, Effie,” Eliot replied.

“And if you so much as get a paper-cut don’t come crying to me, you mongrel!! I’m tired of mopping up blood and trying to keep your clothes hole free, y’hear??”

“I hear you,” Eliot agreed.

Effie scowled.

“Well … that’s alright then,” she growled quietly. She looked up into Eliot’s amused gaze, and nodded. “You be safe, boy. If you need us, we’re here. Always.” She patted his cheek and dabbled tears from her cheek with her other hand.

Eliot suddenly caught Effie’s face in both hands and gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead.

Effie shrieked.

“ _You cheeky little bugger!!_ ” She whacked his chest, and Eliot tried to hug her, which he knew she would detest. “Don’t you bloody _dare!_ ” she bellowed, but Eliot caught her and gave her a hug and Effie instantly melted.

“I love you too, Eff,” Eliot whispered, his voice raspy with emotion.

Effie said something but his shirt muffled her words, although he could have sworn it was something affectionately rude.

When Eliot finally let her go, Effie was red in the face, and Eliot wasn’t sure whether she was embarrassed, angry or blushing.

“Get going, Yank,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh, and there’s a box of something sweet in your bag.”

Eliot brightened.

“Let me guess – lamingtons,” he said.

Effie grinned.

“Nah.” Her grin softened. “Your mum’s pecan pie,” she said, and the love in her voice made his heart ache. He would miss Effie dreadfully.

Nodding his thanks, he turned to Soapy, who held out his hand.

“Be careful out there in the world, Eliot,” the little pastoralist said. “Be safe, and come home when you can. I’ve got work for you to do. Fences don’t mend themselves, y’know.”

Eliot shook Soapy’s hand and agreed.

“I’ll get to ‘em as soon as I can,” he said, knowing he would like to do nothing more than spend his time fixing barbed wire fences. But in the meantime, he had other things to do.

Then a thought popped into his head.

“By the way … I’ve always wanted to ask you something,” he said.

Soapy frowned, puzzled.

“What, son?”

Eliot cocked his head and pursed his lips.

“Why the hell are you called Soapy??” he asked.

Jo burst out laughing as Soapy winced.

“It’s a long story,” he said sheepishly. “But it involved a dare from school pals when I was seven. I tell you, a bar of soap isn’t as tasty-looking as it appears,” he added, flushing a little.

Eliot snorted, amused.

“But,” Soapy continued, “being called Soapy is a helluva lot better than being called Theodore Alphonse Munro Junior, don’t you think?”

Eliot’s jaw dropped.

“Theodore –“

“-Alphonse, yes, I know,” Soapy sighed dramatically. “Those names almost stopped Jo marrying me,” he said.

“You didn’t like them??” Eliot blinked, studying Jo’s face which threatened to redden in embarrassment.

“Nah,” Soapy said by way of explanation. “I didn’t tell her my proper name until we were in church the day we got married. When she heard the padre read ‘em out she could hardly say her vows for laughing.”

Jo slipped her arm around Soapy’s waist and hugged him.

“I did though, didn’t I? Marry you?”

“Yes, old girl, you did. Thank god,” Soapy chuckled.

Eliot smiled at them and then took a deep breath and put on his helmet. He had to go. Pulling the Ducati off its kick-bar, he swung astride the big bike and started the engine.

He looked at these three people who meant the world to him.

“Thank you,” he said. “ _For everything_.”

And putting the bike into gear and releasing the brake, he rode the Ducati out of the yard, past the yards and headed along the road which would take him to the outside world.

* * *

The road rose over a low hill, and at the top was a spread of stringybarks spotted here and there with clumps of acacias.

As Eliot rode the Ducati up the hill over the red-dust road, he saw a figure waiting for him.

Charlie Jakkamarra sat quietly on Bomber beside the acacias, and as Eliot slowed the bike and stopped in the middle of the road, the young aborigine rode forward and halted the little gelding beside Eliot.

Taking off his helmet, Eliot smiled up at his friend.

“I thought I might not see you before I left,” he said.

“Well, Yank, you thought wrong,” Charlie replied, flashing a white grin. “You coming back?”

Eliot nodded.

“Soapy’s got work for me to do, so I’d better, huh.”

“Too right, mate,” Charlie agreed, running a gentle hand down Bomber’s rich bay neck. “We’ll corroboree when you get back, hey?”

“Strewth, yeah!” Eliot quipped, grinning. Then his face softened. “I’ll be seeing you, Charlie Jakkamarra of the _Warumungu_ ,” he said.

Charlie leaned down and shook Eliot’s proffered hand, and they clasped forearms for a second.

“You too, Eliot Spencer of the _Aniwaya_. Be safe, brother.”

“I’ll be back for the wedding, _kukkaji_. And look out for them for me, will ya?”

Charlie touched his fingers to the brim of his stockman’s hat in acknowledgement.

“Will do.”

And as Eliot put his helmet back on, Charlie backed Bomber out of Eliot’s way.

He watched silently as the Ducati carried Eliot away from Wapanjara, and touching Bomber with his heels, Charlie melted back into the bush and was gone.

* * *

As Eliot rode away towards the rest of his life, he knew he would return. He would return to Wapanjara, his home, and he would return to his people, and he would work and sweat and be content.

But what he didn’t know, not then, was that at some point in the future he would come back to Wapanjara, but this time he would bring the rest of his family with him.

_FINIS_

 

 


End file.
